


Passion

by Untherius



Category: Fury (2014), Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some, fury and passion are like so much oil and water.  For others, the two are intertwined in a complicated dance, the one feeding the other to weave the tapestry of life.  Emma Fitzherbert had not come to Germany to find a lover.  Neither had Norman Ellison.  Where their lives intersect, perhaps even a Valkyrie can learn the love of more than just war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translations of German phrases are courtesy of GoogleTranslate. All others are my own, and so are any errors.
> 
> Errors with regard to U.S. Army practices, policies, procedures, and so forth are all my own.

Emma Fitzherbert watched the door close behind the Americans. She waited several score heartbeats before letting out a heavy breath, her gaze lingering.

“Well,” she said at length, and in Old Norse, “that was interesting.”

“That was risky,” Irma corrected in the same language.

She looked at the other woman. “It was worth that risk.”

“Was it?” She didn't sound convinced.

Emma smiled. “You know as well as I do how that fit into the plan.”

Irma cocked an eyebrow. “Allowing the American to have you was part of the plan?”

Emma sighed. “I intend to have him again, you know.”

Irma chuckled. “There are so many battlefields in this war and so little time. This...” She gestured toward the square. “...I understand. But what transpired here between you and Norman?” She shook her head slowly. “A thousand years and I am still no closer to understanding you mortals than I was the day Freja first issued my charge.”

“I might remind you that it was your idea to lure them up here.”

“To more closely observe them in a way not possible in the open. The rest was not part of the plan.”

Emma smiled, then sighed. “Perhaps it was not part of your plan.”

Irma scowled. “Do you mean to tell me, shieldmaiden, that you deliberately bedded the American?”

“The opportunity presented itself.”

“And if his commander had decided to take you, then what?”

Emma tipped her head back and laughed. “Seriously? Do you really think anyone could bed me without my consent?”

Irma's lips spread into a thin smile. “No, I suppose not. But why the act? Why pretend to be...how did you put it...the damsel in distress? That is so unlike you.”

Emma shrugged. “It is simple. I want Norman to return for me.”

“But why?”

Emma carried her stack of plates to the kitchen. “I do not attempt to try to explain matters of the heart. I only know that I knew I wanted him from the moment I saw him. He is young, but he has a good heart and that is worth a lot to me. We are connected now. I know it and, given his behavior shortly before our parting, he knows it. The seeds are sown in both of us. Now I must wait and hope that neither you nor your sisteren will have to collect him.”

“Not for many years, at least. His commander, on the other hand, I will watch him. He seems the type to die a hero upon the battlefield.”

“Indeed he does.” Emma heated some more water. “And the others?”

Irma snorted. “They did not impress me. Especially that rude one.”

Emma laughed ruefully. “Five minutes more, and I would have ended him myself. And you know how seriously I regard the taking of sentient life.”

“That is because you have a good and tender heart, Emma Agtharsdottir.”

Emma smiled. “I am glad you think so. Sometimes I doubt it. Like now, for instance. I dislike wishing ill on another, but that man deserves torment.”

“There is a difference between wishing ill and wishing justice. A man reaps what he sows. The rude one has no respect at all. Still,” said Irma pensively, “it might be amusing to watch Thor beat it into him.”

Emma laughed, then began washing plates. “It is a pity I won't be there to see it.”

“That remains to be seen. You might not be a warrior by trade, but you may yet join the ranks of the Einherjar.” Irma looked sharply up. “Incoming,” she said almost casually.

An explosion sounded out in the square, the concussion wave rattling windows. Screams followed. Emma closed her eyes and reached out with her sixth sense, searching. Yes, there he was. Norman was unharmed.

“Emma!” Irma barked. “Brace yourself!”

Emma barely had time to prepare. She could hear the whistle of another approaching shell. She felt it hit the outer wall. Heat and energy moved quickly in multiple directions, then everything erupted into so much noise and pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For translations of foreign phrases, hover a cursor over the text.

Norman Ellison glanced back at the tank that had been his home for the past few hellish weeks. The grey sky hanging over everything echo the emptiness he felt inside. War clearly did things to a man. He let his sight slide over the scores of enemy dead that lay strewn about, many of them slain by his own hand.

A sunbreak pierced the clouds, a rainbow shattering the pallor, the shimmering bands of color contrasting with the ugliness of death. One end of it seemed to hover above the tank, the word “FURY” turning cheerfully multicolored through the refracted light. He thought he saw a flicker of movement along the bands, as though something were traveling through the rainbow and up into heaven.

It must have been his imagination. While he fervently wished and prayed that Wardaddy's sins would be forgiven, he was just as convinced that none of them deserved heaven. But maybe that was the point. His own sins, especially his recent ones, were sure to haunt him for the rest of his life. And perhaps that was why he'd been deprived of Emma, as a twisted sort of punishment.

A medic half-helped him into the back of an ambulance and closed the doors, shutting out everything. At that moment, his entire world was reduced to that space, lit only by dirty windows, the thin walls muffling the voices of Americans talking loudly to each other, of German wounded moaning, crying for their mothers, even screaming in newfound agony when one or another of them slipped back into consciousness, the iron tang of fresh blood and other signs of violent death replaced by the scents of disinfectant and old blood.

For a few moments, it felt like the inside of that tank. And just then, he desperately wanted to be anywhere but Germany. But unlike all the other times he'd wanted it, he was too numb to do much of anything besides just sit there.

The bouncing of the vehicle, quite unlike that of the tank, only lulled him deeper into a flat introspection. The following hours and days crawled by in what felt like an unbroken stream of bumpy rides, muddy and miserable camps, refugees, and basically most of what he'd seen, heard, and smelled since first arriving in Germany. Only without the moments of sheer terror to break the long stretches of boredom, or even the background tension that had accompanied his every waking moment.

The rumors and claims that the war was over, that Germany had surrendered, turned out to be more fact than fiction. There'd still been the occasional skirmish with Nazi soldiers who hadn't heard the news, refused to believe that news, or were fanatical enough to fight to the last breath.

Not that he blamed them. His own first kill had been in cold blood against a man who'd surrendered. He knew full well the stories of prisoner abuse at the hands of the Nazis and he had no doubt the Nazi soldiers, and civilians too for that matter, had heard similar stories about what the Allies supposedly did to prisoners. It was likely propaganda, rumor, or both.

Fortunately, those conflicts were very few and far between. He'd already seen far more of battle during his few weeks under Sergeant Collier than he'd ever wanted. If he saw any again for the rest of his life, it would be too soon.

One of the men who'd looked him over for injuries the morning he'd been found had called him a hero. A hero for what? Assisting in what had essentially been a slaughter? Having his life spared by a boy? How had any of that made him a hero? He didn't know the answers any more than he knew who to ask about them.

No one he'd met since arriving on the front had really struck him as the heroic type. So just who would he have asked about that sort of thing? Not Wardaddy, even if he'd lived. He'd been too hard a man and would have simply laughed at Norman. Though now that he thought about it, that derision would probably have been because the man hadn't the vaguest idea of what real heroism was any more than Norman did. Wardaddy had had a job to do and as far as he'd been concerned, that had been that.

Somehow, Norman had a sense that the whole thing was far more complicated than that. Even after they'd given him a medal for conspicuous bravery and valor. Even after they'd promoted him to Corporal. Even after he'd been handed his discharge orders.

And so it was that he'd come to be camped outside of Berlin. There'd been talk of housing soldiers in abandoned buildings, but if that was going to happen, the decision-makers were taking their good sweet time about it. Through other bits and pieces, Norman had gathered that certain command centers had been set up in one building or another. But too many other buildings were structurally unsound and there were far too many soldiers for that sort of thing. So, as usual, only high-ranking officers got to sleep inside. It figured.

At least the weather was warming up. The tank had sucked a lot of body heat out through its walls. But he the other four men had generated quite enough to fill that small space. But Norman was adjusting to cot and blanket while he waited to be told when and where to go for his trip home.

He'd wondered about that that trip the day he'd met Emma.

His thoughts turned immediately to her and his heart clenched in his chest. He'd never quite grasped the metaphors, at least not beyond the theoretical. Sure, he'd had crushes on girls and sure, they'd all ended painfully, at least the ones that had actually gone anywhere. But he'd never really understood what it was like to have a broken heart.

Emma had been his first. His first truly broken heart as well as his first lover and he'd barely even known her. Despite that, their encounter would forever be burned upon his soul. The touch of her lips. The taste of her mouth. That smile. Her gorgeous brown eyes and fine, barely-blonde hair. The intense, practically feverish heat of her skin. All the mixed up sensations as they came together and the ice-fire that flooded through his body at the end. The way she'd seemed to glow just after they'd lain together and the intensity with which she'd gazed into his eyes afterward.

“So who was she?”

Norman looked up sharply at the man who'd asked that question. He wore the uniform of the British Army, his accent Irish...or maybe it was Scottish. Norman hadn't quite learned to tell the difference, though he'd been told there was one and that Irishmen and Scotsmen were usually more than a little annoyed over being confused with each other.

“What?” Norman felt like an idiot, even if only a little.

“The girl. Who was she?”

“Um...”

“Laddie, I've seen that look on a lot o' faces. An' it's always been about a lass. No shame in it either. Either ye've a girl back home and had t' leave 'er, or ye met one here an' had t' leave 'er. Lots o' reasons fer both. Good an' bad ones. Though from th' look on yer face, I'd say she'd have been worth it, aye?”

Norman held the Brit's gaze for a couple of moments, then nodded. “Emma,” he breathed. “Her name was Emma.”

“Was?”

Norman tried not to glare.

“Ah, sorry, mate. I really am.” A pause. “Was she pretty?”

“Beautiful.” He closed his eyes, then went on to describe her. He could still see her as clearly as if she were standing right in front of him. “I would have gone back for her. When this was all over. I...” He broke of, fighting back tears. “She didn't deserve it. Any of it.”

The Brit let out a long sigh. “I know what ye mean. Me lass, she died in Loch Ness. Drowned, she did. That's why I joined up. Figured I'd die on Normandy Beach.” He chuckled ruefully. “Dinna work out that way.” He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. He held it out toward Norman.

Norman shook his head. That was one habit he didn't care to acquire.

The Brit shrugged, then pulled one out for himself, lit it, then slipped the remainder back into the pocket. He looked past Norman. “Did she have a sister?” he asked after taking a drag.

Norman shrugged. “A cousin. But...no, I don't know.”

The Brit grunted. “Well,” he said pensively, “I know less than ye, but from what ye've said, I'd guess the lass standin' behind ye might pass fer that sister.”

Norman stiffened slightly, then slowly twisted to look over his shoulder. He froze, except for his jaw, which practically fell off his face. He slowly stood up, blinking. The young woman standing in front of him looked so much like Emma, she was surely a twin sister.

“E...emma?” he said.

She nodded.

“Emma?! But you...wh...how...you're alive?!”

Her lips spread into a smile, a smile that lit up her whole face. Norman threw his arms around her. A moment later, he drew back, letting his hands slide downward to settle just above her hips. “I...”

She leaned up and kissed him, wrapping her own arms around his neck. He kissed her back, tenderly, barely believing it, almost afraid he'd snap back to reality at any moment to find himself embarrassingly embracing the air. But Emma's arms and lips felt so real and solid. So did the rest of her.

If he was hallucinating—and it was a damn good one if it was--he could think of nothing that might have been causing it. He wasn't sure he trusted the Brit behind him to tell him if he was. For all he knew, the man might just let Norman go on imagining things for the sheer entertainment value.

After a minute or two, Norman pulled back gently. He took Emma's warm hands in his own, then stepped back to arm's length. “Let me look at you,” he said.

She'd put her dirty-blonde hair up into a bun secured with a pair of hair pins with purple and yellow stones set in their ends. She'd exchanged her lightweight floral dress for a heavier mottled green-and-grey wool garment of similar length, but with even shorter sleeves. From a heavy leather belt hung a sturdy leather pouch and a large knife on her left hip and what looked like a frying pan on her right. And she was barefooted. But there was no doubt about it. She was the same Emma he'd seen lying motionless and half-buried in rubble.

The Brit let out a low whistle. “This'd be yer Emma, I take it?” the Brit asked.

Norman chuckled. “Yeah. This is Emma...” He looked at her expectantly.

She took the hint. “Fitzherbert,” she said.

“And this is...sorry, I didn't get your name.”

“Fergus Macintosh.”

“Scottish, I guess? Don't hit me if I'm wrong. I've been confusing Scots and Irish for days and they...you...all get pretty annoyed about being confused for each other.”

The Scott chuckled then shrugged. “Ye'll pick it up if ye spend enough time around us. Truth is...an' donna tell anyone I said this...but we're close as th' same anyways. An' lots o' shall we say, breedin' from th' Vikings.” A pause. “Ye were right about her, though. She's gorgeous. I'm wishin' she had a sister. But, ah, ye said she'd been killed.”

Norman glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. I did. She was. I mean, I thought she was. She looked like it.” He turned back to Emma. “I tried to go to you. I was going to go back for you. But...ah, hell, you don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?”

Emma just smiled back at him.

He exhaled heavily and wished for the umpteenth time that he'd made a little more of an effort to learn what little German he'd heard and read since arriving in Europe. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what to do next. He remembered, just before Emma's home had been hit, having decided to make his way back there after being discharged, but he hadn't thought past that.

But Emma stood before him, very much alive and well, and right smack in the middle of one of the larger of the Allied camps. Which meant she was one of very few civilians, and even fewer women of any age, surrounded by thousands, probably tens of thousands, of men. Men who were likely starved for female companionship.

So he did the first thing that came to mind. He dropped to one knee, the mud dampening his pant leg. He continued holding her hands. “Emma Fitzherbert,” he said. His German was spotty at best, and while he'd noticed a lot of similarities between that and English, he hoped it would be enough. He had a feeling he was about to crash and burn quite spectacularly, but he was already committed.

“Willst du,” he said slowly, “um...” He wiggled his left ring finger. “...marry mich?”

Emma's smile broadened, her eyes sparkling. It made her even more beautiful. She guided him back to his feet. “Ja,” she said sweetly, “ich will dich heiraten.” She gently pulled him toward her and kissed him deeply. After a couple of minutes, she released him and giggled.

Norman chuckled. It then hit him that again he had no idea what to do next. Actually, he did. Maybe.

“Wenn?” Emma asked.

“Um...” Norman's brain threatened to shut down on him.

“Wie ware es gerade jezt?”

He had no idea what she'd just said. He exhaled deeply, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Na? Nu?” she said.

Fergus chuckled. “Laddie,” he said, “ye've got yer hands full already!”

The Scot was probably right. No, on second thought, he was definitely right. Norman was in way over his head. But his heart still belonged to Emma and he'd just proposed to her, and that was that. He suddenly had an idea. He tugged on Emma's hand. “Come with me,” he said.

She fell into step next to him and linked her left arm into the crook of his right. Together, they walked first down one row of tents and then another, and another. He finally ducked into a larger one.

The place was packed. That didn't surprise Norman. He glanced at his fiancee—a strange thought—and she didn't seem surprised either. It was almost as though she'd been expecting it. Norman had, of course. There was always a line to speak to a Chaplain, no matter what the reason.

Fortunately, Norman didn't have anywhere to be and he was reasonably certain his bride didn't either. He was just sitting on his hands and waiting for the Powers-That-Be to ship him back home. Emma's home had been destroyed.

After a time, Emma began to hum. Norman had never heard the tune before. It was probably a German lullaby. Whatever it was, it was pretty. She leaned against him. He looked down at her and she batted her eyelashes at him. They smiled at each other.

After a long while of standing, waiting, wondering what the hell he was thinking, exchanging glances both knowing and flirtatious with Emma, it was finally their turn. They stepped into the Chaplain's office, such as it was.

In reality, it was more of a curtained area formed by hanging canvas that separated it from the rest of the tent. The chaplain smiled. “Good afternoon, my son...my daughter. What can I do for you?”

“We'd like to be married,” said Norman.

The chaplain's eyebrows rose slightly. “Congratulations,” he said amiably. He opened a file box and pulled out several sheets of paper. He set them onto the portable table that served as his desk. “First, though, there's some paperwork.”

Norman groaned. Of course there was paperwork. It wouldn't be the Army without it. He sighed, then pulled a pen from a holder on the table and began to write.

“Also,” said the chaplain, “there's usually a waiting period.”

Norman looked up sharply. “A waiting period? No disrespect, but I was just thinking that what with a camp full of thousands of men...”

“And you thought getting married might protect her?” the chaplain finished.

“Well...yeah.”

The chaplain glanced at Emma, then back to Norman. “Who is she?”

“My fiancee.”

“But who is she really?”

“Emma Fitzherbert,” said Norman.

The chaplain raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “Emma,” he said, “weibt du was du tust?”

Emma smiled. “Ja,” she said, “ich weib ganau was ich tue.”

Norman didn't understand most of that either, but Emma sounded confident about it. He went back to filling out the form. It wasn't long before he reached the fields relating to Emma, which only reminded him how little he knew about her. He glanced at her smiling face, and that reinforced that his heart and his head were at odds. Still, there was no turning back.

“Um...Emma?” He pointed at the form, to the space labeled “Middle Initial.”

She looked at the paper and said nothing. Norman could tell the process was going to take a lot longer than he'd anticipated. Well, Emma was worth it.

Some time later, the chaplain stamped the form and smiled. “Shall we?” he said.

“What about that waiting period?” Norman asked. “Not that I mind, it's just...”

“I said 'usually,' soldier. Circumstances are...extenuating. That, and there's not exactly a line for weddings right now and you said you're supposed to be going home soon anyway. I'd usually recommend waiting until then, but given the circumstances...

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered here today to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” He then repeated it in German. “Do you, Norman, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold, for better or worse, in richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” said Norman.

“And do you, Emma, take this man to be your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold, for better or worse, in richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others so long as you both shall live?”

“Ich tue,” said Emma.

“Is there...”

Emma abruptly held out her right hand, palm up. On it rested a pair of rings, both of well-worn, pale yellow gold, but in good condition, and both set with purple and yellow stones. Emma handed the ring with larger stones to Norman.

He took it half-hesitantly. The rings, most certainly a set she'd inherited from a relative, probably had a story attached to them. Someday, he'd learn enough German to ask her about it. Or maybe she'd learn enough English. Probably both.

His heart continued to pound in his chest. He remembered the next words from weddings he'd attended back home, though he was surprised that he recalled as much as he did. “With this ring, I thee wed,” he said.

Emma extended her hand, as though she knew the drill. She probably did.

He slid the ring onto her left ring finger. It was a perfect fit.

Emma did the same, gazing intently into his eyes. “Mit diesem ring, hieraten ich ihnen,” she said. “Mein weltlichen gutern ich mit ihnen tielen. Mit meinem korper verehren dich. Thuwithikh assoithim, we askar:uthim, we asadtholiim asulor mitiglakhna. Thuar:uth deimloit minonyorgelenas, lem thuar:uth deithulit miyorgelenas. Thusheo misigelenas dil nasielin retiserthal, namordimash timiglakhnaal, ne naulor tifenithal.”

At least half of that didn't even sound like German. Something told Norman that there was a lot more to Emma than met the eye.

“Then by the power invested in me by the United States Army, I now pronounce you man and wife.” He repeated it in German. “You may kiss the bride.”

Norman moved to do so, but Emma was faster. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her delicious lips to his. They stayed like that for several moments, before pulling apart. Norman felt giddy and it looked like Emma did as well.

The chaplain scribbled something onto the papers on the table, peeled off a couple of pages, then handed them to Norman. “You'll need to file these with your County Clerk when you get back home. Your marriage won't be legal until then. But it'll be retroactive to today.”

Norman took the papers, his eyebrow cocked.

“Military and civil law don't always coincide too well, I'm afraid. As far as the Army and God are concerned, you're married. The rest is...detail, as they say. It'll matter once you're discharged.”

Norman felt a smile spread across his face. He carefully folded the papers and slipped them into a pocket. “Thank-you, father,” he said.

Emma held out three silver-colored coins toward the chaplain.

“Emma?” said Norman. “What are you...oh. Right.” He'd forgotten that while weddings were officially performed free of charge, it was still customary and polite to pay the chaplain as a gesture of personal goodwill. And while Norman was supposed to have a certain amount of living allowance, he had yet to actually see any of it. Which meant he was completely, embarrassingly, broke.

The chaplain accepted the coins. “Why, thank-you, young lady,” he said amiably. “That was...” He broke off as something on one of the coins caught his eye. He peered at it, then let out a low whistle. “Do I want to know where you got this?” he asked.

Emma smiled, curtsied elegantly, then nudged Norman toward the nearest exit. Once outside, they paused and looked at each other. Norman chuckled, then met Emma's eye. He kissed her again and they both laughed.

Norman's stomach chose that moment to growl. “Uh...sorry,” he said. “Hey, are you hungry?” He patted his stomach. “Essen?” he said.

Emma nodded vigorously. “Freuen,” she said.

He led her along a partly backtracking route until they reached the mess tent. Army food had never been anything to write home about, but it smelled delicious all the same. He wondered what that said about his level of hunger.

No sooner had they reached the head of the line, then it occurred to Norman that he didn't know if Emma was allowed to have any food. If worse came to worse, he supposed he'd simply share his with her.

As he suspected, the man serving from the first of several kettles of mess-of-the-day cocked an eyebrow at Emma. “Who's the broad?” he asked bluntly.

“She's my wife,” said Norman. It felt at once odd, wonderful, and more than a little terrifying to say those words. The man seemed unconvinced, so Norman added, “You wanna see my documentation?”

Emma held out her left hand, the stone in her ring glinting in the lamp light.

The man seemed to consider it, then shrugged, and scooped a liberal helping of something in gravy, which he plopped into a dish and handed to Emma. She took it gladly. “Vielen dank,” she said.

They made their way down the line, the news having apparently traveled. A couple of people, including one woman wearing a Corporal's insignia, expressed congratulations.

The man at the end of the line protested when Emma neatly sliced a stick of butter in half and took one of the pieces. A glare silenced him.

When they'd sat down at a nearby table, he said, “That's...a lot of butter.”

She just smiled at him. She picked up the half-stick of butter, shoved it into her mouth, then tipped her head back, making short, jerking motions.

“Emma!” Norman suddenly wished he'd learned the Heimlich maneuver.

A few moments later, she tipped her head forward again and wiped her mouth elegantly with a napkin.

Norman exhaled heavily. “You scared me, Emma. I thought you were choking. Please don't do that again.”

They ate the remainder of their meal in silence, casting the occasional glance at each other. Norman noticed her table manners were impeccable while his own...well, his mother had tried to beat it into him with little success. Being at war for the past month or so didn't help. He decided to try to imitate what Emma was doing. She seemed to notice and smiled.

Norman found that he couldn't quite finish his food. The rule was that you had to eat it all, but still. Emma made his decision for him by grabbing his plate, placing it atop her own scraped-clean one, and proceeding to polish off the remainder of his meal. How she ate that much and that fast without being a slob about it was impressive.

He returned his dishes and led Emma back outside. He steered her in yet another direction. They wound around camp some more, arriving at the Quartermaster. Fortunately, the staff was still on duty.

“Yes, soldier?” asked a Sergeant.

“I need to requisition a few things.”

“Sure. Just need to see your requisition form.”

Norman groaned. Then, “I need bedding for my wife here.”

“She should have been issued her own.”

“She's a civilian.”

The Sergeant's eyebrow rose. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Still need an acquisition form.”

“Where do I get one?”

“From your CO.”

Norman exhaled. “Dammit, I'm the one surviving member of the sixty-sixth Armor Regiment, second Armored Division. Doesn't that make me my own CO?”

“And you ain't been reassigned?”

Norman held the man's gaze. “I'm being discharged. I ship out in a week. I can show you my orders, if that'll help. But until then, my wife needs a place to sleep. My cot's barely wide enough for me, I'm not keen on sleeping on the ground, and I don't want her doing it either. And my one blanket won't cover us both.”

“Have you tried it?”

“What?”

“Have you tried it?” the Sergeant repeated. “I mean, if I was married to a dame like that, I wouldn't mind being all chummy with her, not one bit.”

Norman glanced at Emma. He thought he saw a twinkle in her eye. “Fine,” he said. “But if I...ah, never mind.” He waved a dismissal hand and walked out with Emma in tow.

Another serpentine route led them back to his tent. Or, rather, to the tent he shared with a dozen other soldiers also waiting to go home. He looked around. It was empty at the moment, but he knew full well that one of the other guys could return at any time. And it would just be his luck that it'd turn out to be at the worst possible moment.

“Fiddlesticks,” he said. He turned to Emma. “We're...uh...not gonna get much privacy. So...looks like our wedding night'll have to wait.”

Emma just smiled coyly, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He didn't resist. Sure enough, not five second later, someone returned. Two someones, actually.

Norman and Emma broke their kiss and looked sharply at the newcomers.

One of them chuckled. “Sorry. Didn't know you had a broad in here.”

“Say,” said the second, “you wouldn't mind if we had a turn...”

“She's my wife,” Norman growled.

“Oh, geez. Sorry. Didn't know.” They turned and left. From outside, one of them said, “Hey, fellas? Let's give 'em a bit of privacy, shall we?” There were chuckles.

Not that they'd have the decency not to listen, but at least he and his bride stood a halfway decent chance of being left alone for a short time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of the songs appearing in this chapter are kind of obscure. Some of them have been given multiple and often quite varied arrangements over the years. I tried to stick with ones that existed prior to WWII, but others are just too much fun. I'm including some links to various performances of them to help lend a bit of flavor to what may or may not be playing in your head as you read. Feel free to listen or not as you feel led.

Norman awoke to the familiar sound of Revile piped through one of the many speakers distributed across the camp. He still didn't know if it was a recording, or if there was actually some guy playing a real bugle into a microphone. He decided it didn't matter. Gaps near ground level showed that the sky was beginning to lighten and he was awake anyway. Between that and the noise made by the other guys prying themselves out of bed, he couldn't have gone back to sleep if he'd tried.

“Hey, Machine,” said one of they guys, using the nickname Wardaddy had given him. “She left you already, did she?”

He sat bolt upright. Emma! He looked around quickly. She was gone. Norman pressed a finger against his forehead. He'd been had, well and truly. It figured. But why would Emma have gone to all the trouble to find him, if she was just going to leave him again? It didn't make any sense. He pulled his clothes on and stepped outside.

The sight before him made his heart leap into his throat and he almost collapsed with relief. There, in the assembly area defined by several bunk tents, Emma stood facing the rising sun. She held her arms out from her body, her head tipped backward. Her eyes were closed, a smile on her lips.

He stood there watching her, ignoring a few other men pushing past him. After what felt like a few minutes, but were probably only several seconds, she turned and looked at him. Her face lit up. “Guten morgen, meine leibe!” she said cheerily.

Norman couldn't help but smile. She strode over to him, swishing her hips as she did, and planted a kiss on his mouth. Which elicited various cheers and catcalls from the guys watching.

“You are one lucky son of a gun,” said one.

“I still say he's a Kraut-lover,” growled another man.

Norman looked at him. Private Cunningham was a big man, the kind that had probably been on his high school football team. And he apparently knew it.

“What?” said Norman.

“You heard me.”

“I think you should show my wife a little respect.”

The man laughed derisively. “You married one?”

“Is that a problem?” Norman was suddenly as afraid of the man in front of him as he'd been of the Nazis who'd been trying to kill him the week before.

“I think we should kill it,” he said.

“And I think you should show _her_ some respect.” Now the man was just getting on his nerves. Which might have been the point.

“And I think we should have a little fun with her first.”

Norman glanced at Emma. She wore a furious scowl. She took a step toward the man. Norman put a hand on her shoulder. “Emma,” he said quietly, “what are you doing?”

She winked at him, then pushed his hand away firmly and continued walking. She stopped a few steps in front of the other man. He leered at her, then reached for her arm. What happened next was over almost before Norman knew it had started.

She suddenly lashed out with her right hand, slamming its heel into the man's chest. The thump was almost palpable, as was the rough gasp that followed on top of it. Two more blindingly-swift moves, and the man landed on his back in the mud, the wind knocked out of him.

Emma stepped back, her attention still on her would-be assailant. Another man approached her from behind. She pointed over her shoulder. “Nein!” she snarled. The guy froze.

Cunningham slowly picked himself up, then shook his head sharply. “I wasn't ready, bitch,” he said. Emma acted almost before he'd finished talking, again knocking him to the ground.

He got up again and rushed her, trying to catch her in first one hold and then another. Emma effortlessly shed each attempt, then neatly felled him.

“Nathimok nashulm toguyerghirt welan,” she said calmly.

The man charged her again. His roar of anger turned abruptly to a scream of agony as she brought her knee up into his groin. He collapsed onto the ground, moaning. Emma laughed, then grinned at Norman. She strode over and kissed him again.

Several of the other guys let out low whistles. “Dang,” said one, “you've got your work cut out for you with that one.”

“Yeah,” said another, “don't make her angry.”

“Wasn't planning on it,” said Norman quietly. He fervently hoped he hadn't just married an SS agent. But where else would she have learned moves like that?

“Fall in!” barked a man from next to the road.

Norman pulled himself away from Emma and joined the other men to stand at attention in rows, just like he'd done every morning during Boot Camp. He'd been out of that particular habit during his time in Fury, but it hadn't taken long to regain it.

Captain Waggoner strolled crisply, yet casually, among the other men. His gaze fell upon the man still laying in the mud. He stalked over. “Get your ass up out of that mud, soldier!”

Norman heard a groan and some squishing sounds, then a couple of coughs.

“That's better. And who told you to roll around like that?”

“No one, sir,” replied the man, his voice strained.

“Uh-huh,” said Waggoner dubiously. “Who are you?” Norman presumed the Captain meant Emma. There was silence. He repeated the question, a little more insistently. Then he said it in German.

“Emma Ellison,” she replied.

“What are you doing here?” the Captain demanded. After a few moments of silence, he repeated the question. Then, “Well?” After another moment, “Does anyone know this woman?”

“I do, sir,” Norman replied.

A dozen or so footsteps put Waggoner firmly in Norman's field of view. “Oh?”

“She's my wife, sir.”

“I see. Can you tell me what the hell she's doing in the middle of a United States Army camp?”

“Besides that we're married, sir?”

Waggoner's eyes narrowed. “Drop and give me twenty!”

Norman immediately dropped to the ground, did twenty push-ups, then sprang back to his feet and to attention.

“Now let's try this again, Corporal. Why is your wife here?”

“I'm really not quite sure, sir. We...haven't discussed it.”

“You haven't discussed it,” the Captain repeated. “And why not?”

“Because...well, she only showed up yesterday.”

“Showed up?”

“It's...complicated, sir.”

“Then you'd better find a way to un-complicate it, soldier.”

“I'm working on that, sir.”

“Then you'd damn well better give me some results. Now, either you tell me what your wife's doing here or you make _her_ tell me.”

“I...don't think she understands English, sir. Not much anyway.”

“What?!” He stomped out of Norman's vision. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” he asked.

“Naturlich,” Emma replied evenly.

“Sprechen sie Englisch?”

“Der grobe mann kann nicht in der kurzen gras verstecken.” If she was intimidated by the Captain, she didn't sound like it.

“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me.” More footsteps, then Waggoner reappeared. “She's German?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Goddammit, Corporal! You mean to tell me you've picked up a war bride?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain groaned. “Company dismissed!” Everyone started to break up and head for morning mess. Then Waggoner added, “Corporal Ellison!”

Norman stopped. “Yes, sir.”

“After you've eaten breakfast, you and I are going to have a discussion you will not enjoy, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you were.”

Norman walked briskly out of camp.

“Missus Ellison,” said the Captain, “where the hell do you think you're going?”

Emma said something that didn't sound German.

“What? Get your ass back here!”

Norman cringed. At any other time, he'd have respected Captain Waggoner. Right then, though, he wanted to turn around and rearrange the man's face. Not that he blamed anyone for being upset with Germans. But Emma was a noncombatant. Why couldn't people at least be civil toward her?

A set of light footsteps accompanied movement in his peripheral vision. That movement became Emma, having no trouble keeping up with him. She shot him a grin and he smiled in return. His impression of her moved up another notch. Clearly she was far more capable than she let on. He began to wonder what other surprises she might have up her sleeve.

Breakfast mess proceeded basically the way evening mess had the day before. At least one of the serving personnel recognized Emma and greeted her politely. She responded in kind. As before, Norman didn't quite finish his food and Emma eagerly polished off what he hadn't eaten. She politely declined coffee. He didn't blame her for that.

Throughout their meal, some of the other men teased the two of them. Norman found himself tripping over his own tongue. But Emma shot it all back measure for measure, only in German with occasional phrases in something else that Norman was pretty sure wasn't German.

After breakfast, everyone who had assignments went about them. Norman and Emma walked quickly back to camp. It wasn't so much that Norman had anywhere to be, nor was he particularly thrilled about whatever tongue-lashing the Captain had waiting for him. He just wanted to get it out of the way. On the other hand, it would almost be a relief from the boredom of waiting, a waiting that had suddenly become a lot less boring with Emma's arrival.

But Waggoner was nowhere to be seen. That was just as well. Norman pulled a pen and paper from his effects, sat down on his cot, and began to write a letter to Wardaddy's mother.

He felt obliged to share some personal memories. For good and ill, Norman was indebted to the late Sergeant. In some ways, he felt he owed the man for helping him get through the weeks of combat he'd seen. He wasn't sure he was ready to forgive him for making him shoot that German soldier in the back. But he had to admit there'd been a point to it. It had been done in cold blood and Norman wasn't sure his first kill would have been any less difficult if it had been in the heat of a hand-to-hand struggle.

Still, he wanted to let the man's mother know that his death hadn't been in vain. She at least deserved to hear something about her son from someone who'd served alongside him. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say, so he just let if flow.

A page of tightly-spaced lines later, he was finished. He read it over. Dang, it looked like so much babbling. But, well, he'd said what he'd had to say. And he was sure the woman would appreciate something more than the usual official letter from the Army thanking her for the sacrifice to a grateful nation.

The second was to his own mother. First and foremost, he wanted her to know that he was alive and well and that he'd be coming home soon. He was intentionally vague about his experiences in battle. He knew people were going to ask about it after returning home and he wanted more time to think about how he was going to respond. And, of course, he wanted his family to know about Emma.

He glanced at his wife. She looked at the letter he'd been writing. He sighed. “Emma,” he said, “I...I don't know. I want to write some things about you. So my mother will have some idea of the sort of woman I married. But...I barely know you. I mean, I feel like I do in here.” He tapped his sternum. “But here?” He tapped his head. “People are going to ask me questions about you when we get home and I fear I'm not going to have much to say.”

Emma smiled warmly, then rubbed his back in a way that felt reassuring. He chuckled softly, then went back to the letter. He briefly described how they'd met, omitting the more sultry details, but including that she apparently appreciated the piano. He wrote a few things he felt about Emma, things he felt a little silly about writing, seeing as how he really barely knew his wife. But he also knew that any relationship of any kind always began with the meeting of strangers. He could make it work. He knew it in his heart. Finding someone worth waking up to was better than finding someone to sleep with and something told him Emma was that someone and on both counts.

“Corporal Ellison!”

Norman signed his name quickly, then sprang to his feet. “Yes, sir!”

“You have new orders,” said Captain Waggoner evenly.

Norman stepped out of the tent, accepted the proffered papers and read them. His eyebrow went up. “Sir?”

“You and your team will be briefed in one hour. Company command tent. I trust you know where that is?”

“Yes, sir.”

Waggoner nodded curtly, then turned and strode out.

Norman exhaled, then re-read his new orders. He sat back down on his cot and penned a post-script to his letter to the effect that he had new orders and would be delayed, but that the war was still over, so he shouldn't be in any danger and his family shouldn't worry. He left out the details, knowing that those were generally classified on a need-to-know basis.

He looked at Emma and smiled weakly. “I'm sorry, Emma,” he said. “They're...sending me to look for my brother. I...I'm going to have to leave you for a time. Not much I can do about it.” He stood up, then extended his hand to her. “At least accompany me to the post?”

She took his hand, then slid her arm into his as they strode to the postal tent. He sealed his letter to his mother in an envelope and wrote the address on the front. He gave the clerk all the information he knew about Sergeant Collier, the man assuring him the letter would reach his surviving relatives.

Once outside his company command tent, Norman turned to Emma. “I...you'll have to stay out here for a bit. It's...probably classified.” He had no idea how much of that she'd understood. He disengaged, then ducked inside.

He strode briskly to the middle of the tent. He'd meant to do it in a business-like manner, but the small space ruined the effect. That was just as well, he supposed. Captain Waggoner and two other men—whom he recognized as Sergeant Spooner and Private Cunningham--stood next to a large table, a map of Germany taking up most of the surface.

He saluted Captain Waggoner. “Corporal Ellison reporting for duty, sir.”

“At ease, Corporal,” said Waggoner casually.

Norman complied.

“Good. Now...” Waggoner stopped, his gaze taken by something over Norman's shoulder. He exhaled heavily. “Corporal?” he said, a slight edge to his voice. “What's she doing in here?” he asked, accompanied by a slight upward nod of his chin.

Norman turned to find Emma frowning at the Captain. He suppressed a groan. “I'm sorry, sir. I asked her to wait outside.” He turned to Emma. “Emma, you...shouldn't be in here.”

Emma cocked an eyebrow at him, then hooked her thumbs into the wide leather belt holding her ever-present accoutrements. She didn't seem inclined to be anywhere else.

“Her,” Cunningham growled. “Sir, what is _that_ doing here? It doesn't even speak English.”

Norman lost it. “Shut up!” he snarled.

“That's enough, both of you!” barked the Captain.

“But, sir,” Norman began.

“But nothing, Corporal.” Waggoner turned his attention to Cunningham. “And Private, you _will_ put your personal feelings aside and be respectful toward other men's wives.”

“But it doesn't speak...”

“Silence!” Waggoner snapped.

“ _She_ ,” Norman insisted. He glanced at Emma. She glared at Cunningham, her jaw set. There was something in her posture that suggested maybe she wasn't just reacting to nonverbals. He decided to take another risk. “Actually,” he said, “I think she does.”

“What?” said Spooner.

“Emma?” said Norman. She turned her head a little, her gaze meeting his. “I know I'm a little wet behind the ears...okay, a lot wet behind the ears...but I can tell when someone's looking at me the way a cow looks at an oncoming train. You've never looked at me like that. Not once. In fact, you always have this look about you that says the wheels in your head are always turning. I think you understand everything we've been saying all along, don't you?”

After a few pregnant moments, a smile spread across Emma's face. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out,” she said amiably.

“It talks!” said Cunningham.

“That's enough, Private!” said Waggoner.

Emma's smile faded. “Clearly, Private,” she said bluntly, “you learned nothing from this morning's lesson. Shall I present the material to you again?”

“Private, is this something I should know?”

“No, sir,” said Cunningham.

“She flattened him, sir,” said Spooner. He seemed to be trying not to laugh.

“Oh?”

“He moved to assault her, sir, if you take my meaning, and she pounded him into the ground. It was...the funniest thing I've ever seen!” Spooner lost it.

“ _What?!_ ” said Waggoner.

“You need not be so concerned, Captain,” said Emma. “I do not believe he will try that again. Besides, I went easy on him.”

Cunningham's nostrils flared.

“Private,” Waggoner growled, “you are this close to a court martial. And Corporal, that forthcoming conversation of ours is deteriorating rapidly.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” said Norman.

“Sorry?”

“Captain,” said Emma evenly, “it would be imprudent to reprimand the Corporal for actions not his doing.”

Waggoner leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

Emma rested her fingertips against the table and leaned forward slightly. “My presence here, both in this camp and in this tent, is of my own volition. The Corporal had nothing to do with it. Nor am I in his chain of command, and so strictly speaking, I am not required to obey him.”

Waggoner raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. You're still not authorized to be here.”

Emma shrugged. “Yet here I am.”

“Leave.”

“Their mission will benefit from my participation.”

“How's that?”

“I know the country, the people, and the language. Finding your missing personnel will go much better if I am involved.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Captain, I tracked Corporal Ellison all the way here from the town where we met. So you know I can find him wherever he goes. I walked right through your security in the middle of the day. So you know I can overcome any obstacle in my way. And both he and Sergeant Spooner saw what I did to Private Cunningham this morning. So you know I can overpower any resistance. Suffice it to say that I will be joining the Corporal and there is nothing you can do to stop me. So you may as well allow me to stay. Resistance, as they say, is futile.”

“She could be a spy, sir,” said Spooner.

Waggoner raised an eyebrow at the Sergeant.

“It's plausible...isn't it?”

“In theory, ja,” said Emma. “But let me remind you all that the war is over. Germany has surrendered unconditionally. What point or purpose would there be for continued espionage activity?”

“I could still have you arrested for trespassing,” said the Captain.

“You could try,” said Emma. “I might even allow it. But your prison, or whatever it is you are using as one, cannot hold me.”

Waggoner's nostrils flared. Emma was going to have her way and the Captain knew it.

“Corporal Ellison, I could have you, and by extension your wife, removed from this assignment.”

“I'm aware of that, sir. But it's my brother who's missing and I consider it my responsibility to find him, alive or dead, and bring him back home. I know how he thinks. Besides, our mother would never forgive me.”

“Will you vouch for your wife?”

“I will, sir.”

Waggoner considered that for several moments. “Alright, Missus Ellison,” said Waggoner.

“Grafin, if you will. Grafin Emma. For business purposes.”

Waggoner raised an eyebrow.

“My rank,” she said. “If it helps, and I think it might, that is higher than Chancellor.”

Norman blinked. What sort of woman had he married?

Waggoner exhaled heavily. “Very well, Grafin. Seeing as how you're determined, I'll concede to allowing you to participate unofficially, if for no other reason than to get you out of my hair.”

“I would rather you allow it because it makes sense,” she said. “But I suppose that will have to do.”

Waggoner held Emma's gaze for several moments before turning his attention to the map. He indicated several areas where planes were reported to have gone down. The four-person team was to search for several MIA pilots, including Norman's brother. Little was known except that those pilots had radioed that they'd at least attempted to bail out. They hadn't turned up at any of the camps, checkpoints, or other temporary Allied bases. Nor had they been among those who had been liberated from prisoner-of-war camps. That apparently didn't mean much, but there'd been a general order to cover all the bases.

An hour later, the team marched out of the command tent. The tension between them was so thick, Norman could have carved it with a spoon. He was beginning to think his career in the Army was going to be a series of highly awkward and uncomfortable assignments. He supposed he should have guessed as much when he'd first enlisted.

Emma held in her hand the requisition form for the supplies and equipment they'd need for the job. She muttered at it in a language Norman didn't recognize. “Nein, nein, nein,” she said at length. “This will all be far too heavy,” she said at last.

“It's standard issue for search-and-retrieval,” said Spooner.

“It is far more than we need,” Emma insisted.

“And what if...” Cunningham began.

“Then we will improvise,” Emma interrupted. “You place too little importance on the gear that sits between your ears.”

“And you place too little importance,” he said, mimicking her accent, “on a Jeep.”

Emma glared at him. “We will not be traveling by motor vehicle.”

“Excuse me?” said Spooner.

“Internal combustion engines do not agree with me.”

“Oh, poor you,” said Cunningham derisively. “Does the Kraut girl have a fear of the twentieth century?”

“You do not listen,” said Emma. “I said they do not agree with me. They tend to fatally break in my presence.”

“Assuming that's the case,” said Spooner, “how do you propose we get out there?”

“On foot,” she said simply.

“What?”

“Our own or a horse's, either one.”

“But that'll take forever.”

“This is a search, is it not? We can cover twenty miles each day by foot.”

“Horsepucky,” said Spooner.

“I have done it myself many times, Sergeant. As has everyone in my family.”

“Uh-huh,” said Spooner dubiously.

“You will see,” she said cheerily. She appeared to be enjoying herself, despite the situational awkwardness.

“We have orders,” said Cunningham darkly, pointing at his copy.

“Uh, no disrespect, Grafin,” said Spooner, “but it's going to be really hard to walk all that way in a reasonable amount of time. Yeah, yeah, I know we've had infantry the whole war, but we've had supply trucks, too. And assuming we find these guys, they could still have broken legs and what have you and from what I've seen, we won't exactly be able to flag down a ride anywhere. And we don't exactly have all year. Which means a set of wheels of some kind. So unless you can or will explain to me exactly how it is that vehicles break in your presence, as you put it, we'll at least need a truck.”

Emma shrugged. “Suit yourself, Sergeant. Do not say I did not warn you.”

That afternoon found Norman and his companions back in camp. Norman dropped his newly-acquired pack onto the ground beside his cot and sat down heavily, the duffel beneath taking some of his weight. Emma lowered herself gracefully next to him.

“Something bothers you,” she said simply.

He looked at her. At length, he said, “Where do I start?”

She shrugged. “Most would begin at the beginning.”

“Yours, mine, or ours?”

“Whichever helps.” She leaned against him, her body heat penetrating his jacket.

Norman tentatively slipped an arm around his wife's waist. He half-expected her to protest in some way. After all, they still barely knew each other and he had it on good authority, as well as personal experience, that such gestures by strangers were rarely well-received. But she didn't even tense. If anything, she only leaned against him more. It made him smile...and relax.

He exhaled. “Well...for starters, why did you pretend not to speak English?”

“It was a test. One can tell much about a person by how they treat those they perceive to be vulnerable.” She beamed at him. “Suffice it to say, I like what I saw. Otherwise, I would not have allowed you to have me. Nor would we, of course, be having this conversation. And, well, later it became more of a game.”

She leaned a little closer, if that was at all possible, and sighed contentedly. “By the way, I do not believe I told you how much I enjoyed that.”

He chuckled, then kissed her. “So did I.”

“And not just on a visceral level. I appreciated the way you approached me. You made love to me, Norman, not mere sex. Or as close to it, given that we still barely know each other.”

“I...um...uh...”

She cocked her head quizzically. “You what? Norman,” she said patiently, “so long as you are honest with me, there is nothing you can tell me that will drive me away.”

He held her gaze for what felt like forever. It didn't waver one bit. “It...was my first time,” he said quietly. “I...had no idea what I was doing.”

“Everyone has a first time, mein schatz. And as you surely know by now, you satisfied me quite well.”

He chuckled. “Thanks. Really. But...I'm a cat?”

Emma tittered. “That would be chat. En francais. Schatz means darling, or sweetheart.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Several. But that is another topic.”

“Huh. So...what if Wardaddy...Sergeant Collier...had decided to, you know, have you?”

“No one can have me without my consent. And I do mean that literally. Anyone who attempts to force themselves on me will wish they had not lived to regret it.”

Norman was beginning to think he was in way over his head. “And your damsel in distress act? That had to be an act, right? I mean, after the way you kicked Cunningham's ass and how put-together you were at our mission briefing.”

She nodded. “I had decided that I want to be with you. I thought that would help motivate you to return for me. I had not expected to be...blown up.”

“Yeah...about that. You were dead, Emma! Okay, obviously not, but...how the hell did you survive that? Were you...in a coma, then?”

Emma cringed. “That was...very painful. My body needed time to repair itself. Otherwise, it is very complicated. But tell me, what would you have done if you had not been pulled away? First aid? Triage? CPR?”

“Um...I...I have no idea.”

“That is just as well. Cruel as it may sound, you needed to believe I had died. It gave you the focus you needed to survive.” She smiled, then giggled. “But, oh, you should have seen the looks on people's faces when I suddenly sat up in the morgue. It was priceless!”

Norman blinked at her. “You're a remarkable woman, Emma. And I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

“I am pleased to hear that, Norman. That you call me a woman, that is. Most people look at me and see a girl. Which, quite frankly, I find to be annoying. It is understandable, yet still annoying. Yes, I think you and I will get along quite well. As for knowing about each other, that will come in time. We have decades ahead of us for that, do we not?”

Norman smiled. “I'd like to think so.”

“Me, too.”

After several moments of silence, Norman said, “So are you going to tell me about yourself?”

“What would be the fun in that?” Emma teased. “The way I see it, this is a marriage, not a job interview. I can go to a library and read a book about, say, Abraham Lincoln, and afterward know a lot about him, even though I have never met the man. That is very different from knowing him as a person.

“So it is with us. The best way is to simply spend time together, and pay attention to the stories we tell about our lives, our families, our experiences.”

“I...hadn't thought about it that way.”

“We have a relationship, Norman, just like we each have relationships with our friends and families. Every relationship, including those, begins with a meeting of strangers. And like those, our relationship will grow as we interact with each other. And I do look forward to interacting with you.”

Norman smiled. “So do I.” He kissed her again. “Are you sure you don't have a fever?”

“Quite sure. Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Please stop asking me about that. The reason for my excessive warmth will become evident in its season. I will explain further when it is time. And trust me when I say that you will know beyond all doubt when that time arrives. Then you will know what I mean by that. In the meantime, please be content with the knowledge that it is extremely complicated.”

“Um...okay,” he said dubiously. “That doesn't make much sense, though.”

“It will,” she said gravely. “You must trust me on this.”

Norman cocked his head. “I'm not sure what to make of that.”

Emma smiled back at him. “Be patient, husband,” she said gently. “Enjoy the journey.”

Norman chuckled softly. “The journey,” he repeated. His gaze drifted downward, then he pointed at Emma's feet. “Speaking of which...” He let the sentence dangle.

Emma stuck one of her bare, very dirty feet out in front of her. “What?” she said innocently.

“If you're going to journey with us, I should requisition you some shoes.”

“Why?”

What did she mean, why? “Your feet...I mean, aren't they cold?”

Emma shook her head. “Nein,” she said.

He wasn't sure he believed her. He'd had his own hands down in the mud while doing push-ups that very morning and that had been more than cold enough for him. That wasn't to mention laying in the mud beneath Fury. No, that mud was anything but warm. Was she trying to prove something?

“What about the ones you were wearing before?”

“They were borrowed. I pulled them off after you left. They were very uncomfortable. I much prefer going barefoot.”

Norman blinked. “Isn't that...even more uncomfortable? Not to mention dangerous?”

Emma shrugged. “Not to me. It is my way.”

“I...see.”

“Do you?”

“Not really, no.”

“It surprises you?”

Norman nodded. “But you seem to be full of surprises.”

Emma laughed.

“Like with those moves you made on Private Cunningham this morning. Where'd you learn that, by the way? You're not SS...are you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Of course not.”

“Except that's what you'd say if you were SS, isn't it?”

“That is true. Tell me, what point would there be for an SS agent to infiltrate the United States Army after the war's end? Moreover, if I were an SS agent, would I not, shall we say, target someone more influential? And would I not go about my task in an entirely different way?”

“When you put it that way. It's just that...I don't know. You obviously have hidden depths.”

“So does every woman.”

Norman chuckled. “Yeah, but I didn't have much opportunity to sound yours before I married you.”

“You asked, remember?”

“Well...sure. Truth be told, I was trying to protect you. But you don't really need it.”

“If you had known yesterday what you know now, would you have chosen differently?”

Norman broke eye contact and stared off into space. At length, he said. “No. Yes. I don't know. Look, Emma, don't take this the wrong way, but...”

“What did I say about honesty?” she interrupted.

“That...the right answer is always the honest one?”

She nodded.

“Okay, then, I kinda feel like you're two different women. Like I fell in love...okay, lust, I guess...with your scared little sister and then married her evil twin. Um...not that you're, you know, actually evil...you know what I mean. But if you hadn't pretended to be the damsel in distress...I don't know. I guess I always assumed I'd have a girl for a while, then at some point ask her to marry me, and then she'd be my fiancee for a while more until we got married.”

“How does that differ from what happened between us?”

“Because...aw, nuts, you're right. But it happened so fast!”

Emma tittered. “I know!” she squealed, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Norman. A man should not look for a princess in need of rescuing. Rather, he should search for a queen willing to fight at his side. You will find that sort of arrangement infinitely more satisfying, I assure you.

“Tell me, now that you know I do in fact speak English and that I am in fact capable of taking care of myself, which version of me do you prefer?”

Norman looked into her eyes and she looked unwaveringly back into his. Then he abruptly grabbed her and kissed her passionately. After several moments, they drew breathlessly apart.

Emma giggled. “That is a very good answer.”

“Hey, Ellison!” It was Private Jones. “You comin'?”

“To...?”

“The USO show?”

“Oh, right. Uh...maybe.” He'd been so busy, first with his wallowing, then with Emma, then with his new assignment, he'd completely forgotten. He turned back to his wife. “You, uh, wanna come to the show? It's...well, probably not something you'd like, I guess, but it'll beat boredom.”

“Now, why would I be bored visiting with my new husband?”

“Um...”

Emma smiled, then punched him playfully in the arm. “Of course I will join you. Even if it is more of a man's sort of thing. Lead on, mein ehemann.”

Norman led her down the muddy roads that wove across camp. They eventually emerged into a large open area. At one side stood a low wooden stage with a curtain behind it. Before it sat what had to be hundreds of men on hay bales, buckets, crates, folding chairs, wooden stools, and so on. More men and a few women continued to filter in to fill the few remaining spaces.

A man in a suit stepped onto the stage. He leaned into the microphone. “Hey, sorry, gentlemen, but...ah...Trixie's down with the flu and two of the Triplets have laryngitis. So...yeah, there's no show today, folks.”

Boos and similar calls of displeasure rose up from the crowd. Norman couldn't blame them. If there was one unadulterable fact about war it was that it constituted short periods of terror with very long periods of utter boredom in between. Often, it had been the USO tours that had made the boredom so bearable and he'd already heard it whispered that it was really the likes of Bob Hope that had won the war.

“Hey, it's not my fault!” protested the man on the stage.

Emma muttered something, then took a step toward the stage.

“Emma? What are you...?”

Emma began to weave her way through the edge of the audience. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

“Sorry,” Norman muttered as he fell in behind his wife. What in the world was she doing?

“Excuse me, sir?” said Emma.

The man on stage looked down. “Yeah?”

“You seem to be in need of some assistance, ja?”

“Um...no offense, miss, but unless you got a chorus line hidden under those skirts of yours, which I doubt...”

He didn't finish his sentence before Emma bounced up onto the stage.

“Emma?” said Norman. “Are you...you're not...no, no.”

She looked back at him. “What?”

Norman groaned. He remembered Emma's singing the day they'd met, when he'd sat there playing the piano. She'd stood behind him, singing in German, on pitch and on key, but very weakly. He'd known musicians all his life and there was no way Emma was performance material.

“If you're thinking about singing...look, don't get me wrong, I liked it, but...” He shot a glance at the other guys. When he looked back, Emma had already stepped away.

“Miss?” said the man on the stage.

She stepped up to the man and said something to him, too quietly for Norman to hear. The man looked quizzically at Emma, then shrugged, said something to her, then retreated from the stage.

Emma stepped to within a few paces of the stage's edge. Norman groaned. Emma took a deep breath, and began to sing. Norman's jaw dropped. What came out of her mouth was not German, not English, and certainly anything but weak. It was beautiful and mesmerizing.

“Gar nan tonn gur trom an nuallan, seirm am chluais do ghloir  
“Dan nam beann gach allt is fuaran, siaradh nuas le'd cheol  
“'S tu gach latha gun tamh no bhuaireaddh, d'iargain bhuan gan leon  
“'S tu gach oidhche chaoich mo bhruadar, gu Thir Nan Og!”

She sang two more verses while everyone, himself included, sat and stood transfixed in silence. When she'd finished, she said, “That was a Scots Gaelic song about the Land of the Ever-Young. Now for something that I am sure will speak to nearly all of you.”

She looked at Norman, smiled, winked, then began anew, the tune fast and rousing.

“We are merry men of armies, so sturdy and so stout  
“When the day is done and it is time for fun, we will drink and sing and shout  
“You weak-livered milk drinkers can let your throats run dry  
“For there is just one drink that we will sink until the day we die  
“Drinking mead in the halls of Midgard, the maidens and the men  
“We will swig our brew until we spew, then we fill our mugs again  
“You can keep your filthy Skooma, it makes our bellies bleed  
“For when we raise a flagon to another dead dragon, there is just one drink we need  
“Nord mead! Nord mead!

“Chug a mug of mead and another mug of mead  
“Chug another mug of mead until you fall down  
“Chug a mug of mead and another mug of mead  
“Chug another mug of mead, warrior!”

Norman had never heard the song before, but the audience seemed to like it. Nor had he ever heard of Skooma. He supposed it was some substandard German beer. The second verse of the song mostly compared Nord mead favorably to other alcoholic beverages. When she'd finished, cheers and whistles erupted. Norman couldn't help but grin himself.

Emma took a deep breath and belted out two words:

“CALON LAN!”

Her voice carried so well, it echoed off of everything. All other sounds died abruptly, except for a last reverberation of “lan.” After a heartbeat, she launched into a lively tune.

“Calon lan yn llawn daioni, tecach yw na'r lili dlos  
“Dim ond calon lan all ganu, canu'r dydd a chanu'r nos!

“Nid wy'n gofyn bywyd moethus, aur y byd na'i berlau man  
“Gofyn wyf am galon hapus, calon onest, calon lan!”

Emma continued to sing the remainder of the song, her enunciation clear and crisp, her voice strong and just short of operatic with barely-perceptible vibrato. She didn't simply stand there and sing it, she performed it. It was mesmerizing. Norman thought his jaw might drop off his face altogether.

“Now,” said Emma, once she'd brought the song to a close and the cheering had again died down, “we have a few Welshmen in the audience, do we not? I know you are there. I saw you singing along. Would you care to join me on stage?” A pause. “Oh, come now,” she teased. “Are you warriors, or are you not?”

“What if we can't sing?” called a man, his accent English, or so it sounded to Norman.

Emma laughed. “What? A Welshman who cannot sing? How dare you speak such nonsense! Surely you are not intimidated by a woman such as myself?”

She punctuated her question with a sideways cock of the hips. The laughter, wolf whistles, and a little bit of taunting saw four men in the green-khaki uniforms of the British Army thread their way forward and climb onto the stage.  
Emma shot Norman a smile and a wink, then opened up again.

“Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tan, soban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr  
“Ar gath wedi sgrapo Joni bach.  
“Mae bys Meri-an wedi brifo, a Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach  
“Mae'r baban yn y crud yn crio, ar gath wedi sgrapo Joni bach!  
“Come on,” she motioned to the men. They joined her, tentatively at first. Clearly, though, their reluctance to be upstaged by a German singing one of their own songs tipped them over the edge.  
“Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tan....”

Emma barely took a breath before launching into what Norman figured, from certain repeated phrases, to be “Hogia Ni,” “Un Funud Fach,” and “Lawr Ar Lan y Mor.” Each time, it took the Welshmen several measures to catch up to Emma, who'd apparently chosen some atypical arrangements of those songs.

She even dragged the men into a sort of Can-Can dance, complete with skirt-swishing, for the third song, apparently oblivious to the several heavy items she hadn't bothered to remove from her belt. Norman could have sworn it was actually “Down By the Riverside.” It was the same tune, but he didn't speak Welsh, so for all he knew, it really was the same song. Whatever it was, she seemed to be having more fun than should have been decent. It made Norman smile.

She grabbed a canteen of water off the piano to her left. Norman hadn't noticed when it had appeared there. Maybe she'd asked the MC for it before she'd started singing. After a few swallows, she set it back down and started in with “Oes Gafr Eto.” It began slowly, but soon sped up, the tempo accelerating with each verse. The Welshmen followed along well enough, though a couple of them seemed unfamiliar with her arrangement and started tripping over their tongues and dropped out one by one. Toward the end, Emma had left the final man in the dust, singing to rival an auctioneer. It was impressive!

The Welshmen retreated beneath a barrage of applause, whistles, and cat-calls. Emma drank it in, smiling warmly and curtsying.

“Something in English!” someone shouted after a couple of minutes.

“English, you say?” said Emma. “Well, if you insist.” She took a deep breath, then sang a song about the Northwest Passage. Norman remembered something about that from his history classes.

She turned around amid the ensuing applause, and accepted a guitar the MC had produced moments before from somewhere backstage, exchanging a few quiet words with the man. She plucked at each string a few times, twisting at the tuning knobs.

“This is a traditional Chinese song called 'Tu-ning,'” she said after a few moments. Groans and chuckles drifted up here and there. When she was satisfied, she continued.

“Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O?  
“Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Came ye by Killicrankie, O?”

It took Norman a minute to realize the words were actually English. A quick glance at some nearby faces told him he wasn't the only one. At least the song was pretty—almost as pretty as the woman singing it.

A sedate, and much more comprehensible, song about the Star of the County Down followed it, then one about ghost riders in they sky, then “Protect and Survive,” an energetic and interesting song with some rather odd metaphors.

Then her playing took a turn toward the aggressive with a song about the bonny ship the Diamond, then another about sailing beneath the black flag that would have sounded piratey even without the lines

“Defy the odds against us, a pirate knows no fear  
“Our steel is ready and our retribution is severe.”

Emma's playing was even more impressive than her singing and Norman hadn't known such things could be done with a guitar. Apparently, neither had anyone else.

After that, Emma's playing slowed again. She'd barely plucked a dozen notes before going straight into the lyrics.

“Bi mo leannan geal is alainn, le briathran geallaidh thar chaich  
“Bi sinn druidhe an smuid an aoibhnis, an oidhche phosas mo run...”

The tune continued for another verse, then sped up dramatically for what Norman figured to be the chorus.

“Togaidh sinn horo ghealaidh, horo ghealaidh, horo  
“Togaidh sinn horo ghealaidh, horo ghealaidh, horo  
“Ghealaidh horo, o horo, ghealaidh horo togaidh horo  
“Ghealaidh horo, o horo, ghealaidh horo togaigh horo!”

She maintained the tempo for a second verse and repetition of the chorus. As before, Norman had no idea what any of it meant, but it sounded like more Gaelic.

“That was a love song,” said Emma. “It means, 'My love will be unblemished with words of devotion beyond all others. We will be drenched in the stupor of joy the night my love weds...'” When she'd finished, the applause was almost as raucous as it had been for the song itself. She grinned at Norman and he couldn't help but grin back.

She unslung the guitar and laid it atop the piano, then picked up a...was that a dum-bek drum? Who would have been dragging a dum-bek through a war zone? A guitar, maybe, and even that could have been owned by the USO. But a dum-bek? Maybe someone had looted it from somewhere in Berlin. Emma slung the attached strap about her shoulder, settling the cylinder against her hip, and began to pound out a bouncy rhythm. Then,

“'Si do mhaimeo i, 'si do mhaimeo i, 'si do mhaimeo i cailleach an airgid  
“'Si do mhaimeo i o Bhail' Iorrais Mhoir i 's chuir-feadh si choisti 'r bhoithre Chois Fharraige...”

When she'd finished that song, the rhythm changed to something Middle Eastern, the words French with the recurring phrase, “Va l'ost des croises,” then another about “Terre Bretagne.” Norman knew just enough of the language to pick out a few phrases here and there.

She set the drum beside the piano, then repeated the previous exchange with the MC, who handed her a violin. Wait...she played that, too?

Emma checked the bow, then drew it across the strings a few times, adjusting the tuning pegs a little. Then she launched into a beautiful tune she called “Tall Trees, Long Shadows.”

After that, she paused, then almost sawed on the strings for several measures before singing something in French about the prisons de Nantes. Then she transitioned into what he recoginzed as “Le Jument de Michao.” He wasn't surprised to hear several Frenchmen sing the echoing lines in the song's call-and-response pattern.

After more cheering, she sawed on the strings once more, launching into something that sounded like more Welsh. Then her playing escalated even more and she spent what felt like ten minutes beating that poor violin into submission as she danced about on stage.

“And now,” she said after more applause, “I would like to invite Graf Norman to accompany me on piano.” There was a pregnant pause. She looked expectantly at Norman.

“M...me?” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Unless you know of another Graf Norman?”

“Uh...Graf?”

Emma smiled, then batted her eyelashes.

“Go on!” said a man. A second repeated it and before long, there was really no way Norman could have backed out. Still, he wasn't remotely ready for that level of performance. He climbed up onto the stage anyway.

“Do you know Pachelbel's Canon?” she asked him.

“I've played it a few times. But it's been a while.”

Emma grunted acknowledgement. “We will play it...what is the word...extemporaneously?”

Norman frowned. “You mean...improvise?”

She nodded. “You will soon see what I mean,” she said, raising the violin to her shoulder.

Norman raised an eyebrow, then exhaled heavily. He just might live to regret...well, everything.

“Oh, come now,” said Emma. “Relax. Let it flow. It will be fun!”

“If you say so,” he said, sitting down on the piano's bench. At first, his mind went blank. He forced himself to unfocus on all the faces looking at him. He let his hands hover over the keys for what felt like forever. Then he found the first few notes. The rest of the tune flowed from them.

After a few measures, Emma began to pluck at the violin's strings. Norman almost faltered as he glanced sharply up at her. It was clearly the same tune, but with a syncopated rhythm he hadn't expected. After a few more measures, she drew the bow across the strings with the same syncopation. Norman felt a smile spread across his face and he felt his hands follow suit as his mind relaxed and gave in to the music.

His gaze met Emma's. The twinkle in her eyes made him smile. Her playing sped up and Norman had to work a little to keep pace with her.

Well over halfway through, Emma abruptly set the violin atop the piano and began to pound out a rhythm against the wood.

Norman paused. Emma winked at him. He shrugged and joined her, the two of them using the piano's frame as a large drum for several measures.

Then she picked up the violin and resumed playing. Norman followed suit. She smiled warmly at him and he back at her. A few bars later, Emma brought the tune to a resolution.

She lay the violin back on the piano, then pulled a sheaf of papers from the pouch at her waist. She riffled through them, then arranged them on the piano's music rest. The piece was titled “Beethoven's 5 Secrets.” Norman looked at her quizzically. He'd played some Beethoven, but that piece was unfamiliar to him.

“You can sight-read, ja?” she asked.

He nodded. She picked up the violin and again they played together. Every so often, Emma shot him a warm smile or a wink. She was clearly enjoying herself and Norman couldn't help but pick up on her enthusiasm.

They played two more such pieces, both different, and both, according to notes at the top of the first page, originally written for piano and cello. Somehow, Emma made it work with the violin.

“Several generations ago,” Emma said to the audience, “a relative of mine was crowned Queen of Norway before it was called Norway. On her coronation day, a sudden blizzard fell upon the capital city. Many blamed her for it, so she fled to the mountains in fear and despair. It is a very long story. But during her brief exile, she sang this song. It has been passed down since then and I will now sing it in the original Norwegian.”

She nodded to Norman. He took a deep breath, scanning the sheet before him. Emma really had it in for him. He began to play. The tune was somber, even mournful, a mood reflected in Emma's tone when she began to sing.

“Det glitrer hvitt over fjellet i natt, det er vakkert vintervaer  
“I riket jeg bor alene, og som dronning star jeg her  
“Og vinden hyler lik som stormen i mitt bryst  
“Holdt det ikke ut, himlen sa min dyst  
“Slipp ingen inn, la ingen se, slik er plikten, jeg er jo fodt til det  
“Jeg dekket til. Det ingen sa, det vet de na!”

Her tone rose, a glimmer of hope piercing the song's mood.

“La den ga, la den ga! Den kraften jeg skjulte for  
“La den ga, la den ga, jeg har snudd og stengt en dor  
“Jet er lei, alt de tror de har sett, la det storme na  
“Litt frost gjor meg ingenting unsasett.”

The song continued, the mood shifting progressively, rising to one of triumph. The whole time, she appeared to be acting out something, though Norman had no idea what. Eventually, Emma belted out the final verse.

“La den ga, la den ga! Jeg skal stige lik solen na  
“La den ga, la den ga! Perfect er fortid sa  
“Jeg er klar, og jeg smiler bredt, la det storme her!  
“Litt frost gjor meg ingenting uansett.”

Cheers erupted from the audience and Emma bowed and curtsied. She motioned to Norman, casually at first, then insistently. He reluctantly stood, and also bowed.  
When the cheering had subsided, Emma again raised her voice.

“Of all the money ere I had, I spent it in good company  
“And all the harm I've ever done, alas it was to none but me...”

When she'd finished “The Parting Glass,” she bowed again to a standing ovation.

The MC intercepted them on their retreat from the stage. “Hey, Miss...”

“Missus,” said Emma. “Missus Ellison.”

“Sure...sorry. Say, if you ever want a job, you got it. I can put you in touch with my brother in Chicago, if you want.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to Emma.

She tucked it into her pouch. “Thank you. I shall keep that in mind.”

An hour later, Norman shifted his duffel to his other shoulder as his loosely-knit team trudged toward the motor pool.

“Hark to the calling of the road,” sang Emma.  
“Feel the dust beneath our feet at the first sigh of dawn  
“Hark to the calling of the road  
“When the sun reaches its zenith, look our way and we will be gone...”

Norman smiled. Yes, life with Emma was going to be very interesting indeed. He wondered what other surprises she might have in store for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in how I've been hearing in my head the arrangements of what Emma sings, here are some links (Ja, most of them are YouTube, because it's otherwise hard to find even short samples of a lot of these, although if you have iTunes, that's a good way to hear enough of a song to get a feel for it.) and notes:
> 
> Tir Na Nog  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29JjS6a1RHk
> 
> Nord Mead  
> http://miracleofsound.bandcamp.com/track/nord-mead
> 
> Arrangements of all the Welsh songs can be found here:  
> http://www.sainwales.com/store/sain/sain-scd-2560  
> http://www.sainwales.com/store/sain/sain-scd-2588  
> http://www.sainwales.com/store/sain/sain-scd-2205
> 
> NW Passage  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVY8LoM47xI
> 
> Braes O' Killicrankie  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0m6EZVVqtNY
> 
> Protect and Survive  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-EBXxdni7U
> 
> Bonnie Ship the Diamond  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4EhGcyklZ8
> 
> Beneath the Black Flag  
> http://miracleofsound.bandcamp.com/track/beneath-the-black-flag
> 
> A Reiteach (I'm more fond of the arrangement on Runrig's album "Proterra," but I'm having trouble finding a recording of it online. So here's another, one of several recorded live.)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-lMr6ua9B0
> 
> Si Do Mhaimeo I  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmKARGPle4I
> 
> Retour de la Croisade  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRHJhx6Q5OU
> 
> Tall Trees, Long Shadows  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKaCU18waes
> 
> Dans les Prisons de Nantes  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUs64shEaPo
> 
> Le Jument de Michau  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJPI1ohI_q8
> 
> Emma's Celtic violin work sounds, in my mind, a lot like Mairead Nesbitt's arrangements that she performs as part of Celtic Woman.
> 
> Rockelbel's Canon  
> http://thepianoguys.com/portfolio/rockelbels-canon-pachelbels-canon-in-d/
> 
> Beethoven's 5 Secrets  
> http://thepianoguys.com/portfolio/beethovens-5-scerets/
> 
> La Den Ga (you guessed it...)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RYrvECmSao
> 
> The Calling of the Road  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuJyvUx0Do8


	4. Chapter 4

The low, steady rumble of the truck engine wasn't nearly as loud as the roar and rattle of Fury. It was still enough to almost lull him into some sort of torpor. The silence from his teammates didn't help. Not that there was really much to discuss. They'd gone over their route, which was fairly straightforward. They weren't even supposed to have to turn for a couple of days.

“Corporal,” said Spooner, “your wife's weird.”

Norman blinked. “Huh?”

“I said, your wife's weird.”

Norman just looked at the Sergeant. He wasn't sure what to say about that. Nor was he sure what Emma would say about that and she was clear in the back of the truck at her own insistence.

“Uh, she's, a little unusual, I guess.”

Spooner snorted laughter. “A little unusual? That's putting it mildly.”

“She's amazing.” Norman didn't bother to hide his awe.

“She's a f**king Nazi,” said Cunningham.

“She's _not_ a Nazi!”

“How do you know? Because she said so? Dammit, Machine, you know they're all lying out their...”

Cunningham didn't finish his sentence. Spooner slammed on the brakes, the truck lurching to a sudden stop.

“What...?”

Norman looked out the window. Someone stood right in the middle of the road. Whoever it was appeared to be wearing some sort of Medieval plate armor. No, on second glance, that person was indeed wearing armor.

She--the twin bulges on a steel breastplate made that much obvious--was clad head to toe in leather and steel. A round helmet covered more of her head than even a German soldier's helmet, her face half obscured by a metal mask that gave the whole thing a sort of Viking look to it. Substantial cups rested on each shoulder, with articulated upper-arm protection, elbow cups, and steel vambraces above bare hands. From her waist hung a vaguely Roman-style skirt of wide leather strips fixed with steel plates. Legs, knees, and shins were likewise covered with sheet steel, sturdy leather boots peeking out from beneath the shin protection.

All the metal gleamed brightly, but with the sort of iridescent bluing Norman had seen on steel that had been heated and then rapidly cooled. Between the metal he could see black leather. A sturdy two-foot sword hung at her side, a long-handled axe peeking over her shoulder, and a round shield slung across her back. In one hand, she held a long spear, its head looking substantial enough to stop a heavy truck, and its sturdy haft planted firmly in the ground.

“Hey, toots!” called Spooner out the window. “What's with the Captain Scandinavia get-up?”

The woman didn't respond.

“Oh, come on. Get out of the way, would ya? I was just joking.”

She still didn't move.

Spooner groaned. “Corporal? Would you...” He gestured.

Norman took the hint. He hopped out of the truck and trotted the dozen or so steps to the woman. “Uh...guten tag. Could you please...” He made a scooting gesture toward the side of the road.

“Neinn,” said the woman. The word sounded like German.

Norman exhaled, then turned around. “Emma? Would you come out here please?”

Emma's head appeared around the edge of the truck's covering. “Ja?”

“We have a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Uh...I'm not sure. I think you'll have to come out here.”

Emma's head vanished. Moments later, the truck's engine sputtered and died. A moment after that, Emma trotted around from beside the vehicle.

“What seems to be the trouble?” she asked.

Norman nodded to the woman in armor. “She just appeared. And she won't move. I thought...well, it seemed like your kind of problem.”

“Oh,” said Emma. “I see.”

The armored woman exhaled heavily, then reached up with her free hand, undid a strap beneath her helmet, then peeled it off to tuck it beneath her arm. Norman recognized the face instantly. She'd tied her brown hair back behind her head.

“Irma?”

“Reginleif!” Emma exclaimed.

Irma...or was it actually Reginleif...looked at Norman, then back at Emma. She was clearly not amused.

“Reginleif, what are you doing here?” Emma asked.

Reginleif's nostrils flared. “Freja Valhallu mik skjoti.”

“Hvat? Hvi?”

“Hana motsa.”

“Oh? Hvat vertha?”

Reginleif launched into something Norman couldn't follow. When she'd finished, she just stood there, her nostrils flaring.

Emma pressed two fingers to her forehead and groaned.

“What was all that about?” Norman asked.

“It is...sensitive,” said Emma.

“As in, you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me?”

Emma snorted. “Do not be so dramatic, mein ehemann. I could tell you, but you might not believe me.”

Norman looked to Reginleif, then back to Emma. He was in for it, he just knew. He wasn't exactly sure what 'IT' was, but there was probably going to be a really interesting story to tell his friends back home...and his grandchildren.

Emma said something else to Reginleif in the same not-quite-German language.

Reginleif snorted, then stalked toward the back of the vehicle.

“Um...Grafin?” asked Spooner. “What's she doing?”

“We will take her with us and sort it out later.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I know you're here for your expertise and all, don't get me wrong. But Grafin or not, you ain't in charge.”

“And how would you have solved the problem, Sergeant? Because a single glance told me your solution was not working.”

“Well, you didn't exactly give me a chance to try any others, did you?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don't know, a bullet?”

Emma stiffened. “Be careful how you talk about Reginleif. Her kind do not respond well to that sort of thing.”

“Her kind?” said Cunningham.

“That didn't sound like German to me,” said Spooner.

“It is Old Norse,” said Emma.

“She's Norwegian?”

“Ja und nein. It is a long story. But we waste time.” She stepped toward the rear of the truck. “I will tell you more later.” With that, she disappeared inside.

Norman groaned, then walked around the front and climbed into the cab.

“Something tells me,” said Cunningham, “your wife is gonna get us killed.”

“Actually,” said Norman, “I have a feeling she's the one person who can keep us alive.”

“If you say so,” said Spooner. He restarted the truck. “But I reserve the right to say I told you so.” He put it into gear and bumped onward.

* * *

Emma Ellison sat at the very back of the American lorry, drumming her fingers on the vehicle's tail gate as she watched the road unroll behind her. She sighed, then chuckled. Across from her, Reginleif made an inquisitive noise.

“Oh,” said Emma in Old Norse, “the situation amuses me.”

“You are amused by the strangest things, shield-maiden.” She smiled thinly. “But you are not a typical Midgardian.”

“That is true on both counts.” She cast a glance toward the front. “Now, if I can avoid having to go all maternal on those men...”

“I still think hiding beneath the bed was excessive.”

Emma shrugged. “It was appropriate for my role.”

“You are strange.”

“Perhaps.”

“I prefer the direct approach.”

“I have noticed. It is why you are banished to Midgard, is it not?”

Reginleif glared.

“What is the point of living if you cannot feel alive, mm?” said Emma.

“You know very well that my business is death.”

Emma sighed. “Reginleif, what happened to you? Before you were Chosen, I mean? Or did a thousand years as a Chooser of the Slain make you so bitter?”

Reginleif averted her gaze toward the retreating road behind them. At length, she asked, “Do you think he suspects?”

Emma shook her head slowly. “Mm. It is difficult to say. Norman is an intelligent man, but he lacks experience. People his age may be intemperate, but he has not yet acquired the annoying habit of thinking he knows what he does not. His preconceived ideas are underdeveloped and so they do not blind him. The world has not yet convinced him that the possible is impossible. The immaterial has not yet become so immaterial to him, I should think.”

“Is that why you pursued a husband so much younger than yourself?”

Emma laughed. “A husband younger than myself? Now, now, Reginleif. You know well enough how redundant that is.”

Reginleif chuckled. “So your answer is neinn, you do not think he suspects, ja?”

Emma nodded. “He has no idea of any of it. He knew by my behavior that I was pretending not to speak English. That is one thing. The rest of it?” She chuckled. “Some of that will be impossible to hide. Even that may be difficult for him to grasp. Yet I believe that his inexperience may keep his eyes open to that which he might otherwise not so readily accept.”

“He seems to believe palm-reading. If so, then perhaps he will find your secrets easier to accept than you think.”

“Indeed. The Universe is a very strange place. The sooner he grasps that, the better. Only then will he be receptive to the evidence.”


	5. Chapter 5

Norman just stared out the window as the truck rolled along the back roads heading southwest from Berlin. No one said anything. He was fine with that. He still had no idea how to answer most of the questions either of his companions would likely have asked about Emma. To say nothing about Irma, whose real name was apparently Reginleif. And none of them had any clue about the armor.

He quickly lost track of where they were going. None of them had looked at the maps since pulling away from the base. He hoped the Sergeant had memorized at least some of the first week's route. He sure showed no sign of consulting Emma any time soon.

He also had little idea what they were all going to do at night with regard to the sleeping arrangements. If it had only been the three of them, two would sleep in the truck bed while a third kept watch. He supposed they'd deal with that soon enough.

He'd thought grinding along a column in Fury had been monotonous and dull, the hedgerows sliding past, the brown, muddy strip of road rolling under, the seemingly endless progression of fields and streams, the columns of smoke rising from unseen towns. He was pretty sure he was more bored. Then again, there wasn't the constant background tension that went with the perpetual risk of being shot at any moment.

At long last, as the sun hung only a few diameters above the trees to the west, a banging sound behind him startled Norman out of his reverie. Sergeant Spooner brought the truck to a halt. He leaned out the window. “What?!” he yelled back.

“Turn right,” Emma shouted back, “then left, then straight, then left, then...” Norman quickly lost track of Emma's directions, though Spooner seemed to be following them well enough. When she was done, the truck started again and they drove onward.

“That dame of yours is somethin' else,” said Spooner.

Norman chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.” Then, “Any idea where we're going?”

Spooner shook his head. “I got no damn clue. I was hopin' you knew.”

Norman shrugged.

After another hour, they pulled off the road in front of a farm house. Beyond that, barely visible through some trees, was a large lake. Spooner shut off the engine. “Well,” he said, “we're here. Wherever here is.”

“Oh, good,” said Emma from somewhere to the rear.

Everyone in the cab piled out. Spooner looked suspiciously at the building. “Private, Corporal, check it out. Grafin...”

“It is fine,” said Emma.

“How do you know it ain't occ-u-pied?” said Cunningham.

“I have my ways,” she said. She barely broke her stride on her way to the front door.

“Goddammmit,” Spooner muttered. “She's gonna get us all killed. Corporal...”

Norman rolled his eyes, then trotted after Emma. “Um, Emma? This is...” He didn't quite finish his sentence before the two of them reached the door.

Emma tried the knob. It was locked. She pulled a couple of objects out of the bun in her hair and went to work on it. “This is what?” she asked after a moment.

“Dangerous,” said Norman.

The lock clicked and Emma turned the knob again. The door swung ajar. “I very much doubt that,” she said. She put the objects, which may have been hair pins for all Norman knew, back into her hair and walked into the house.

“But you don't know who might be in here,” Norman said.

“Oh, but I do.”

“Uh...”

“You and me, at the moment. That is all.” She walked through a modest living area, then past one end of an equally modest dining room and into an adequate kitchen. Without missing a beat, she walked to the stove, pulled a cast iron pan from a hook hanging above it, and set it on the stove. “Well?” she said. “Do not just stand there. Go and fetch your things. Invite the others in while you are at it, would you?”

Norman shook his head, then walked out of the house. The other two soldiers leaned casually against the front of the truck. Cunningham puffed on a cigarette while Spooner slowly scanned his surroundings. Reginleif stood apart from them with spear in hand, looking intently toward the lake.

“Um,” said Norman, cocking his thumb back toward the house, “the, uh, missus would like us all to grab our stuff and go inside.” He kept walking toward the rear of the truck.

“Oh, she would, would she?” said Cunningham. He didn't seem inclined to move.

Norman crawled into the truck and pulled out his duffel. He hopped back out and slung it over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, “she would.”

Spooner cocked an eyebrow. “And you're just doin' it, no questions asked?”

“If you want to spend the night out here, go ahead.”

“Corporal,” said Spooner, “you ain't in charge here.”

Norman stopped. “Sorry. But you did follow her directions, which led here.”

“I seem to recall agreein' to listen to her navigation.”

“Yeah,” said Cunningham, “which don't say nothin' about her tellin' us where to sleep.”

“And how do we know that ain't a trap?” said Spooner.

Norman looked at the house, then back to the Sergeant. “Look, Sergeant, I think if she or Reginleif were planning to kill us, they'd have done it by now. Right?”

Spooner regarded Norman for several moments. Then, “Dammit, Corporal. Fine. Go on in. We'll be there in a minute. But if this goes south 'cause we decided to trust someone we don't really know, it'll be yer ass, got it?”

Norman nodded, then resumed his walk toward the house.

“Sergeant,” spluttered Cunningham, “you can't be serious!”

“Shut up, Private,” Spooner growled. “Just grab yer stuff an' come on.”

Norman smiled as he stepped up onto the porch and went inside. The smells that met his nose immediately made his stomach growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten much all day. He went straight to the kitchen.

Emma stood at the stove, tending something in the skillet, something that made sizzling sounds.

“Smells good,” he said.

Emma smiled at him from the stove. “Thank you,” she said. “Put your things down in the living area, if you would. And if you would like to contribute to our meal, that would be appreciated.”

Norman nodded, walked back through the house and carefully set his duffel against a wall. He rummaged through it and pulled out a can of pork-and-beans. “How's this?” he asked.

“Perfect,” said Emma.

“You, uh, didn't even look at it.”

“It is not necessary.” There seemed to be a hint of laughter in her voice. “I have become accustomed to improvising my meals.”

Norman pulled the tab on the can and peeled off the lid, then handed it to Emma. She took it and dumped the contents into the skillet. The sizzling sounds slowed and stopped. She stirred it with a stout wooden spoon.

Norman heard the others tromp into the house, toss their bags onto the floor, then stomp to the kitchen.

“What are we having?” Cunningham demanded.

Emma cocked an eyebrow at him. “Norman and I are having pork-and-beans, eggs, sausage, onions, and turnips. Reginleif is having...probably mead. What you two have is entirely up to you.”

“You aren't cooking for us?”

Emma scowled. “What made you think I was cooking for you?”

“Well...you're a dame, so...”

Emma laughed, a clear note of derision in it. “You assume far too much,” she said, then returned her attention to the stove.

“Is there...anything I can help with?” said Norman quietly.

Emma smiled. “Yes, thank you. Please find yourself a bowl and a spoon.”

“What about you?”

“I have my own.” She nodded to the counter. A ceramic bowl in mottled russet that reminded Norman of a turtle shell with an orange peel texture sat on the counter. A light grey metal spork rested in it. The bowl was much wider than it was deep, but looked like it could have held an entire cubed cantaloupe with room to spare.

Norman went back to the living area, ignoring Cunningham's glare and Spooner's eye roll, and dug his own mess kit out of his pack, separated the bowl and spoon from it, then returned to the kitchen.

Emma spooned the skillet's contents into their respective dishes, giving herself twice as much. Norman raised an eyebrow.

“I eat a lot,” she said.

“I see,” he said dubiously, though he wasn't entirely sure he did.

Emma scraped the pan thoroughly, then returned it to the stove. She picked up her dish and walked to the living area and lowered herself gingerly onto a narrow sofa beside a cold fireplace.

Norman sat next to her, leaving a couple of inches of space.

Emma dug into her food, chewing aggressively between bites. After a few, she slowed down.

Norman lifted the first bite into his mouth and chewed. Flavors exploded across his tongue. “Mmmm?”

Emma swallowed her bite. “Black pepper, garlic, cumin, cardamom, coriander, oregano, and rosemary,” she said.

“They had all that here?”

Emma shook her head.

“Wait,” said Spooner, “this isn't...your house?”

“Of course not. We are borrowing it.”

“Borrowing?”

“Without permission,” she added.

“Isn't that, like, stealing? Trespassing?”

“We prefer to think of it as preemptive salvage.”

“And if its owners come back while we're here?” said Cunningham.

“They will not. Remember what I said about knowing the land.”

Cunningham's eyes narrowed. “And if you're wrong? And they do come back?”

“Then I will deal with it.”

“If they come back with guns?”

“Then Reginleif and I will deal with it.”

“But...”

“Meister Cunningham, you are cranky. Sit down and eat something.” She jabbed her spork at him for emphasis.

“What happened to 'Private?'” he demanded.

“We are off duty,” she declared.

“Off duty?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Cunningham didn't answer.

Emma just shrugged and went back to eating. When she'd finished, she dug into her satchel, and came out with a chunk of bread. She tore it in half, handed one to Norman, and proceeded to wipe out the inside of her dish with her own half.

Norman watched her eat out of the corner of his eye. She ate with what he might best have described as ravenous efficiency. Yet at the same time, she managed it with poise. It was as though she had merged the mechanics and manners of eating, elevating both to an art form in the process.

Norman did his best to imitate her. He was immediately distracted by the bread. It was dense, seedy, coarse, and flavorful. He'd never tasted anything like it.

When Emma was finished, she took her and Norman's dishes to the kitchen. The sounds of water and humming floated back. Several minutes later, Emma returned and handed Norman his bowl and spoon, both clean and dry.

“Thank you,” he said.

Emma smiled. “You are welcome.”

He returned his utensils to his duffel. “What was that tune you were humming? It was pretty.”

“Oh, that. It is called 'Song of Exile.'”

“Exile?” said Spooner. “That's cheery.”

“What's an ex-ile?” said Cunningham, his mouth full of MRE crackers.

Emma cocked an eyebrow at him. Then she began to sing.

“Land of bear, and land of eagle.  
“Land that gave us birth and blessing  
“Land that calls us ever homeward  
“We will go home across the mountains

“We will go home, we will go home  
“We will go home across the mountains  
“We will go home, we will go home  
“We will go home across the mountains”

She continued with a couple more verses, her melodious voice filling the room, then brought the song to a resolution.

“That was beautiful,” said Norman.

Emma smiled, then launched into another song, one he recognized as “Whiskey in the Jar.” He wished he knew it well enough to sing along.

The tone of her song changed yet again.

“Ta muid  
“Gan am anois is eagle liom  
“Ar gcroi the snaidhmthe  
“Gan romhainn inar mbeatha  
“Ach eadochas domhain do laigheasta”

Then she sang it in English. It was sad and beautiful at the same time.

When she was finished, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small flute. She proceeded to play it. Norman didn't recognize any of the more than half-dozen tunes she played.

“Aren't you afraid someone's going to hear?” said Cunningham.

“Of course not,” said Emma.

“But...”

“If anyone comes to cause trouble, Reginleif will handle it,” she insisted. “Although I fear her approach will be, shall we say, less than diplomatic?”

“Less than diplomatic?”

“She is still in a very bad mood. I do not anticipate that changing any time soon.”

“So we're just sitting here?”

“And eating and relaxing.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? I do not know about you, but Norman and I are letting our dinner settle.”

“And then what?”

“And then we will all go to bed.”

“That seems...a little disappointing.”

Emma shrugged. “That all depends on what each of us is planning to do after going to bed, does it not?”

She put the flute back and brought out a pan flute, which she likewise began to play. Norman didn't recognize any of those tunes, either. How many instruments did she play, anyway? That made five, so far.

It was dark by the time she had finished. Norman could barely see. Emma stood up and took him by the hand.

“You should bring your things,” she said quietly.

“Where are you going?” Cunningham demanded.

“Upstairs,” said Emma. “Otherwise, that is none of your business.”

Norman felt Emma pull on him. He walked with her, grabbing his duffel on the way and bouncing off the corner of a wall. He stumbled awkwardly up the stairs after her, though she herself never missed a step. He fumbled along the wall until he bumped into Emma.

She opened a door. “In here,” she whispered.

He followed her in. She closed the door behind him. “Put your things anywhere,” she said.

He reached out to the side and carefully set his duffel on the floor. It was probably in the way, but something told him that wasn't going to be an issue for a while.

“Now,” Emma continued, “I do not believe we have had a proper wedding night.”

“Uh...we didn't? But...”

“That was...a formality.”

Norman blinked in the darkness. “It didn't feel like a formality to me.”

Emma chuckled ruefully. “Of course not,” she said, poking him firmly in the sternum. “You are a man. And one who has only lain with a woman twice.” She took his hands in her own. “Intimacy is more than mere sex. Even dogs have sex. But they do not love. At least, not like people do. That is an important difference. And it is something every husband and wife should explore.” She reached up with one hand, slid it behind his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

He returned it.

She pulled back. “Take your time,” she said. “Tonight should be a marathon, not a sprint.”

“Don't we have to get going in the morning?”

“You have a willing wife in front of you, and the time and opportunity to do something about her, and you are thinking about your job?”

“Um...I...guess, if you put it that way...” He kissed her again, more tenderly. After a time, he felt Emma's hands at his clothing. He groped at her belt, its attachments making a heavy thump as they hit the floor. His own jacket made a much more subdued sound against the floor behind him. Several awkward minutes later, they'd divested each other. “You...don't wear underthings?” he asked.

“Does that surprise you?”

“A little.”

She whispered into his ear, “And just how many women have you seen unclothed?”

Norman squirmed. “A few. Okay, three. You, my sister, and my mother. But that was when I was a kid.”

Emma stepped back and tugged at his arm. “You sound a wee bit defensive,” she teased.

“Well...I mean...wouldn't you be?”

“Perhaps. Though it depends greatly upon the circumstances.” She turned in the darkness and moved something. The rustle of large amounts of fabric was unmistakable. Her warm hand alighted at his waist. “Now, let us talk only of each other for a while, for no others should join us in bed.”

The bed behind her creaked a little as she slid into it, pulling him in after her. He made love to her as best as he knew how, memorizing her curves and lines as his hands slid along her warm skin in the darkness, and as his mouth tasted hers.

After some time, she let him enter her. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the rhythm they found together. At one point, she flipped him over onto his back. How she did it without breaking their connection, he didn't know. He wasn't about to take issue with it.

He lay back, his hands on her hips, meeting her pressure against him. Both their breathing and movements increased until he couldn't stand it any longer. He let go. At that instant, he felt her shudder against him, a gentle squeak rising from her throat. For several moments, neither of them moved. Norman opened his eyes...and gasped.

“E...Emma?”

Emma beamed at him. Literally. Her entire body glowed--her skin a golden hue and her hair a bronzey color--that clearly originated from somewhere inside her. He lifted one of her hands and trailed his fingers across her luminous skin, staring at it.

He turned his attention to her eyes, both burning like a pair of neon blue lights. “Are you...an angel?” he asked, not bothering to keep the awe from his voice.

Emma giggled. “No,” she said, a note of playfulness in her voice. “But I am flattered that you say so.”

“A goddess, then?”

Emma laughed. “Demi-goddess, perhaps. That is still very much a subject of much debate. But it may very well be accurate.”

Norman felt a grin spread across his face. “I'm married to a goddess,” he said smugly.

Emma chuckled. “Oh, I would not be so self-satisfied about that, if I were you,” she teased. She rolled off of him and propped herself up on an elbow, the glow from her body slowly subsiding. “I think you will find that being married to me is not at all like what you might expect.”

“Then what should I expect?”

She leaned closer, her nose less than an inch from his own. “Expect the unexpected,” she said softly, then kissed him. “We should rest a while.”

“For what?”

“Really, Norman. What kind of newlywed are you?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“Do not be sorry, meine leibe.”

Norman chuckled. They made love twice more, Emma glowing radiantly each time, before they finally drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of Exile:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANwSl3DJ9Cw
> 
> Ta Muid  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fpxIbwVHlpI


	6. Chapter 6

Norman slowly awakened. It took a few moments to clear the cobwebs from his brain and a few more to realize where he was. A pale grey light spilling through the room's only window didn't help. He groaned slightly, then groped for Emma. She was gone. The bedclothes were still warm, so it couldn't have been long.

“Emma?” he croaked. He cleared his throat and said her name again. Silence.

Norman rolled out of bed, vaguely aware that he'd never asked his wife just whose bed they'd borrowed. The floor was cool and rough beneath his feet. He hastily dragged on his clothes and clomped downstairs.

His team-mates sat in the living area more or less where they'd been when he and Emma had left them the night before.

Spooner pointed. “She went out the back. In a hurry, too. Didn't say why or where, just...”

Norman swallowed a curse, then stepped across the dining room. The door to the outside stood open. He stepped through into a morning fog. Through it, barely visible, a human form moved away from a tree. Norman trotted toward it.

A towel had been draped carelessly over the stub of a branch. Twenty yards away, a person, presumably Emma, stood facing away.

“Stay there, Norman,” said Emma.

How did she...? Before Norman could finish his thought, the air around Emma crackled. Without further warning, fire erupted around her, surging quickly outward.

“ _EMMA!_ ” Norman screamed.

As quickly as it had come, the fire contracted back toward Emma and vanished with a sort of hollow thud.

“No...”

The mist that had clung to the forest was gone, apparently pushed out by the fire. Emma stood in a clearing of bare, baked, steaming earth some twenty yards across, surrounded by the smoldering stubs of tree branches. And she was naked. 

“Norman,” Emma scolded over her shoulder. “Not so loud! You will wake the whole town.”

Norman stared at her as she trotted toward him, her perky breasts bouncing with each step. “Wh...wh...wh...” he stammered.

Emma placed a warm hand on his lips and smiled. “We must talk now.”

She plucked the towel from the tree and wrapped it about her torso, neatly tucking the free end next to her body. “Do you remember what I said when you asked me why I am so warm?”

He nodded.

“It is a long story. For now, I will give you the heavily abbreviated version. Because...”

The other guys interrupted her. “What the hell was that?” said Spooner.

“Gentlemen,” said Emma, “I would like to have a private discussion with my husband, if you do not mind.”

“And if we do?” said Cunningham.

Emma cocked her head. “Seriously, Private? Please go back inside. We will be in soon.”

Cunningham crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

Emma exhaled heavily. “That man seems to be deliberately and systematically treading on every one of my nerves. I fear he will go too far and that Reginleif will do something he will barely live to regret.”

“I can hear you,” sneered Cunningham.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you can,” she said sarcastically. She turned her back on him, then slid her hand into the crook of Norman's elbow. “Walk with me,” she said quietly.

They'd taken a half-dozen steps, when Spooner called, “Uh...where the hell are you two going now?”

“We will not be long,” Emma called over her shoulder.

“He has a point,” said Norman quietly. “Where _are_ we going?”

“Out of ear-shot. Oh, ja, they will see what I did sooner or later. But I want to discuss it with you first, in something resembling privacy.”

“Wait, that's going to happen again?”

Emma only nodded and grunted in what Norman took to be an affirmative. Once they'd reached the other side of the scorched clearing, Emma stopped. “Now, I believe I was about to give you a brief explanation. Are you familiar with pyrokinesis?”

Norman blinked. Was she serious? “Uh...yeah. It's the ability to start fires with your mind. But it's not supposed to be possible.”

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “Says the man who apparently believes that palm-reading is a thing.” She shook her head slightly. “No, I tell you that much more is possible than you may think. Norman, the Universe is a very strange place, stranger than you know. This is something you must accept if you are to be married to me without going utterly mad.

“Pyrokinesis is a real thing. As far as we know, most reported incidents worldwide are exaggerated at best. But this...” She held up her hand, palm up. Fire flared up around it, seeming to originate from her skin, or perhaps the air around it. It was a dull orange color and flowed around her hand and between her fingers like a living thing. The heat radiating from it was intense. After a few moments, it vanished. “...is real.”

“H...how did you do that?”

“That is a long story and one I will share with you in due course. Right now, you need to know two things. First, I bear shards from three stars. I was born with them. They make what I do possible.

“The second is that what you saw is called an uncontrolled pyrokinetic discharge. It happens when our bodies are out of balance. Only a few things can cause this. Consumption of alcohol is one. Another...is pregnancy.”

Norman's brain crashed into itself. At least, that was how it felt. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He blinked, then tried again to say something. But neither his brain nor his mouth seemed terribly cooperative.

Emma gently lifted his jaw shut. “Please close your mouth, Norman. We are not a cod-fish.”

Norman finally found his voice. “You're...you're...preg...”

“Pregnant?” she interrupted. “Oh, ja. I suspected as much. The timing was right, among other things.”

“How...how?”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me your father told you how that works.”

“Wh...uh, yeah. But...” He took a deep breath, held it, then let it back out. “How was it your...morning sickness?”

“I just told you. My body was out of balance. It is the same reason all women experience morning sickness. But with us...well, we discharge.” Emma chuckled. “Believe me, it is very annoying. But we manage.”

Norman blinked. “I...I don't believe it,” he breathed.

Emma leaned forward until her face was just inches from Norman's. She spoke quietly. “If you have trouble believing that one of the sperm you squirted into me the day we met fertilized one of my eggs, which then implanted itself into the wall of my uterus and began to grow into our baby, then I dare say you are going to have an awful lot of trouble believing everything else.

“Fortunately, I think it is more that the prospect of being a father for the first time is something you find overwhelming more than unbelievable, ja? You are more than intelligent enough to grapple with the realities of having married into a family of Sun-bearers. So, shall we let that all sink in while we go eat our breakfast? I do not know about you, but I am famished.”

Emma turned him back toward the house. After a few moments, Norman asked, “Does it hurt? Discharging, I mean.”

Emma shook her head. “Nein. It...it is difficult to describe. I will try later. But, nein, it is not painful.”

Norman stopped her and gazed into her beautiful blue eyes. “You're amazing, Emma.” He leaned down and kissed her soundly.

* * *

Emma waited for Sgt. Spooner to finish his string of profanity. She almost smiled at the inventive ways the man strung it all together. Of course, the American had nothing on the Scots. Those people were true artists when it came to that sort of thing. Not that Emma approved, really. Nor could she really do much about it. She tried anyway.

“That is all highly unlikely, Sergeant,” she said bluntly.

Everyone looked at her.

“Think about it,” she said insistently.

There was another pregnant pause. Then Sergeant Spooner began to spout orders to Norman and Cunningham.

“No, Sergeant,” said Emma, “none of those things is capable of having sex. Especially the excrement. And you would be wasting your time anyway. This engine...” She nodded toward the truck. “...is beyond repair. The block is cracked.”

“How do _you_ know?” Cunningham demanded.

Emma cocked an eyebrow, then pointed at the cloud of steam. “See for yourself,” she said.

“I _can't_ see,” he said, “it's steaming.”

Emma shook her head. “Of course not. You must look with more than your eyes.”

“Uh-huh,” said Cunningham derisively. “And just how do I do that?”

That had always been far easier said than done. Describing her heat perception to a non-Sun-bearer was problematic at best. No one in the family had ever quite succeeded. Not even Great-Grandmother, who'd had more time than anyone to think about the issue. The closest comparison was to impressionist painting, or making a parallel to sight versus hearing. Even that was far enough from the reality of the thing as to barely make a difference. No, carrying around a perpetually growing, pulsing, nearly-living shard of supernoval ejecta, while it had certain undeniable advantages, was just as often an annoyance.

Still, even the first vibrations she'd felt through the truck's frame had told her what had happened. The uneven heat distribution--particularly the rent in the cast steel through which the water which normally bled excess heat off the engine erupted like a geyser--was obvious. Boiling water gushing through the crack did an admirable job of cooling the metal to either side, painting what she might have described as a dark slash against a dully glowing mass.

Emma sighed. It was really too bad. The world was so much richer beyond the visual spectrum.

She leaned casually against the truck and folded her arms. “ _You_ do not.” She abruptly thrust one arm into the cloud of steam.

“Emma,” said Norman, “stop! That's...” He broke off at her raised eyebrow. “...hot,” he finished.

“Ja,” she said. “And it feels good.”

Several moments passed. The steam gradually dissipated. When it had, Emma stepped back. Spooner peered into the engine compartment. “Damn,” he said at length. “She's right. Block's cracked. Badly, too.” He looked at Emma. “How'd you know?”

“It is complicated,” she said.

“Of course it is,” sneered Cunningham.

“Cut it out, Private,” said Spooner.

“But...”

“That means shut the hell up!” Spooner snapped. He turned back to Emma. “How'd you do that, anyway?”

“It is extremely complicated.” That was always an understatement. But it often shut people up.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don't doubt it. Guess we call for backup.” He hopped into the cab and grabbed the radio transmitter. After a minute, he hopped back out. “Damn,” he growled. “Radio's dead.”

Emma suppressed a cringe. That the radio had survived so long in her presence was a testament to the toughness of American manufacturing. Still, even if the device had functioned, Emma simply generated too much interference. And what would they say anyway? That they were on some unnamed muddy road in the middle of an equally unnamed forest in the mountains of western Germany? That described half the country! Emma, of course, knew exactly where they were. But explaining it to someone else was another thing entirely. No, it would be more efficient to simply go where they must. Which would be much smoother if she were actually in charge.

“Now what?” said Cunningham.

“We will have to walk,” said Emma.

“What?! We can't walk!”

“Why not? I do it all the time, as I said back at your base. Besides, what other option do we have?”

Cunningham stepped up to Emma and glared at her. “I bet you planned this. You lured us out here to...”

“Private,” she said, “if I were going to kill you, I would have done it by now. Believe me, I could do it without moving a muscle and I would leave no evidence. As far as any coroner could tell, you would have DFO'd.”

“D...what?”

“Done fell over. Now, Reginleif? I believe she would like nothing better than to tear out your spleen with her bare hands and make you eat it while you die. And _that_ , I guarantee, would leave plenty of evidence. You should gather your things. The forest is dark and the wolves will be hungry.” She stepped around Cunningham and toward the rear of the truck.

“W...wolves? What wolves?”

Emma snorted. “Really, Private,” she said over her shoulder.

Norman joined her by the truck's tail gate. “Um...Emma...Grafin, sorry. How are we going to carry all our gear?”

“I will help you. Drag your duffel out here, please.”

Norman looked at her for a moment, then did as instructed. He squatted on the edge and looked down as Emma began to rummage.

He exhaled. “What are you doing?”

Emma glanced up and met his gaze. “Some things,” she said, “are best shown.” She selected a small item, Norman's personal grooming kit, and slipped it into her satchel. She pulled out another item, a deck of playing cards, and slipped that into her satchel as well.

Spooner groaned from a couple of steps away. “Grafin,” he said, “that's not going to make a damn bit of difference.”

Emma chuckled, then cast the Sergeant a wry smile. “Always with you what cannot be done.” She returned to her task, reminding herself not to overdo it. Teasing those not in the know had always been far too much fun for her.

She looked at the covers of three small books, all Armed Services Editions of familiar works. “Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn...funny man, Sam Clemens. I have never tired of his storytelling.”

Cunningham glared at her from behind Spooner. “It's by Mark Twain, you idiot,” he snarled.

Emma cast him a glare of her own. “Mark Twain was his pen name,” she said bluntly. “From his days working on a riverboat. Honestly, Private, did you not pay attention in school?”

She slid the book into her satchel and looked at the next. “War of the Worlds...The Time Machine.” She chuckled. “Fun one, War of the Worlds. Fortunately, Mars is a dead world. Time Machine...not so much. The man did not understand causality.”

That book joined the first. “The Hobbit.” She smiled broadly. “Wonderful, this one. I think you will love his Lord of the Rings also.”

“Never heard of it,” said Spooner.

Emma's smile broadened. “Lord of the Rings? It has not been published yet.” She looked at the next book. “White Fang...Call of the Wild. Interesting man, Jack London. Severe, though. Haunted by the ghosts of his past, he was. Excellent writer, though. Too bad he was never part of Franklin's ill-fated voyage,” she added wistfully. “Much good material from that, his hand reaching toward the Beaufort Sea.”

She peered at the last book and raised an eyebrow. “Dunwich Horror and Other Weird Tales.” She looked up at Norman. “Has this given you nightmares?”

Norman shook his head. “I haven't read it.”

Emma cocked her head. “Pity. You might find Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos fascinating. But be sure you are some place warm and sunny when you do.”

“Uh...sure.” He paused. “I...haven't read any of those.”

Emma started. “What? Why ever not?” She didn't wait for a reply. “We shall have to fix this at once!” She gestured at him with the book. “We will continue with your education while we walk.” She glanced at Spooner and Cunningham. “You, too.”

“What if I don't want to?” Cunningham demanded.

Emma shrugged. “Suit yourself. But do not complain to me if you spend the rest of your life digging ditches or cleaning toilets. Still, I do think you will enjoy Beowulf.”

She returned to her task. One by one, she pulled small items—packages of crackers, tins of SPAM, bundles of socks—from Norman's duffel and slid them into her satchel. It didn't take long for the others to notice.

“How the hell are you fitting all that in there?” demanded Spooner.

Emma chuckled. “It is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside.”

“That's impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Look, Grafin, you're a capable girl and all that. And you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. But that's just crazy! How can something be bigger on the inside?”

“Magic!” she said cheerily.

“There's no such thing,” said Cunningham.

“There you go again, Private, with what cannot be done.” She patted the satchel. “You yourselves have stood there and watched me place half the contents of the Corporal's belongings in here. The evidence never lies. Do you have the courage to follow it?” She pointed into the truck. “Corporal, will you please hand me that first-aid kit?”

Norman groaned slightly, but complied. Emma flipped open the rigid lid with its prominent red cross. “I still find it odd that your medical profession has chosen the emblem of the Knights Templar,” she said half to herself.

“The what?” said Spooner.

“The Knights Templar. Argent, a cross couped gules,” she said, pointing at the red cross on its white background. “Your medical personnel are supposed to be noncombatant. Yet the Knights Templar were fearsome warriors. Your Geneva Conventions...I do not believe Dunant knew his history as well as he thought. Nor did he grasp that the hands of mercy and violence can be wielded by the same body. In all things, there must be balance.”

She pawed around inside the box of first aid supplies. Much of it she already had in her possession. But it would be a shame to leave it behind, especially those items which tended to be difficult to come by. She reached into her satchel and moments later, pulled out a pouch made of soft doeskin with a rawhide closure. She stuffed it full of things like iodine, gauze, and pain-killers before returning it to her satchel.

She looked at Norman's duffel, then hefted it briefly. “There,” she said, “I believe that will do. It will be dark in a couple of hours.” She spun about and took a few steps away from the truck.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Spooner.

“Yeah,” said Cunningham. “What about ours?”

“What about it?” said Emma.

“Ain't you gonna carry ours, too?” demanded Cunningham.

Emma blinked at him like he was crazy. But the man really needed to learn some hard lessons, even if it killed him. “I warned you,” she said sternly. “Back at your base, I told you it was all too heavy. If you had studied your history, especially the voyage of John Franklin, you would have known that I was right. But, nein, you would not listen.

“And now you are encumbered because you would not use what sits between your ears. The situation forces your hand, Private Cunningham, as it always does. We still have people to find. Which means you must simply deal with the consequences of your decisions.

“I will carry this.” She gestured to herself. “Corporal Ellison will carry that.” She gestured to Norma's half-full duffel. “What you two and Reginleif carry will be entirely up to you. Now, shall I stand here and wait, or will you catch up?”

Spooner groaned. “Dammit, Grafin,” he said. “Look, you're probably right about this. I can't see any other way around it either. But will you stop making the decisions around here?”

“The decision is made for us,” she said. “You just admitted as much. Technically, I still out-rank you.”

“It ain't yer mission, Grafin,” he protested.

“The task before us is to find missing people. Whichever of us is best suited for a particular job is the one who should do it.” Emma pointed southwestward. “The location we seek is that way. To reach it, we must walk in that direction. What does it matter who is in charge? It must still be done, ja?”

Spooner groaned. “Damn. Fine, we'll trim our gear. But would you please at least let me know what you intend to do before you just up and do it?”

“You can't possibly...” began Cunningham.

Spooner rounded on Cunningham. “Goddammit, Private!” he said. “Knock it the hell off! You've done nothing but complain ever since we left camp. Every time you've opened your goddamn mouth, it's been to say something insulting about Grafin Emma and or...Lady Reginleif.”

“But they're Germans!” Cunningham protested.

“I don't give a shit! We're out here to find someone. The Grafin is here to supply her knowledge and expertise. The Lady is...oh, hell, I have no idea what Reginleif's deal is either. But all she's done is sip at whatever it is that's in that horn of hers, do sword and spear drills, and glare furiously at _you_ and flare her nostrils. I swear, she's _this_ close to breaking every daggum bone in your body. Now, get it together and do your damn job, Private! That's an order!”

A tense silence followed. At length, Cunningham growled, “Yes, sir.”

Emma waited while the two of them sorted through their stuff, deciding what they really needed and what they could leave behind. Arguments erupted between them from time to time. Eventually, they finished their task.

“I still think we should sleep in the truck tonight,” grumbled Cunningham. “Or at least go back to Mannheim.”

“Noted and logged, Private,” said Spooner. He looked at Emma. “Okay, Grafin. You seem to know where we're goin'. Care to lead on?”

Emma smiled. “I would be delighted. But first, how about a song?”

Without awaiting a reply, she began one of her favorite walking songs, the beat steady and perfect for the beginning of a march while one was loosening up the muscles. After the first line, to Emma's delight, Reginleif joined her.

“Hefir hon haft langan vanmátt, ok pat var krom mikil  
“Fekk hon enga nótt svefn ok var sem hamstoli vaeri.  
“Ristnar hafa verit rúnar, ok er sá einn bóndason  
“Hedan skammt í brott, er pat gerdi, ok er sidan miklu verr en adr.  
“Egil reist rúnar ok lagdi undir hoegendit Ì hvíluna, par er hon hvildi  
“Henni potti sem hon vaknadi or svefni ok sagdi At hon var pá heil.  
“Skalat madr rúnar rista, nema rada vel kunni, pat verdr mrgum manni, es of myrkvan staaf villisk  
“Sák á telgdu talkni tiu launstafi ristna, pat hefr lauka lindi langs ofrtrega fengit.”

“What the hell was that?” said Spooner.

“Part of the saga of Egil Skallagrimson,” said Emma.

“Was that German?” Cunningham demanded.

“It is in Old Norse.”

“What? Who the f**k speaks Old Norse?” A moment later, “ _OW!_ She hit me! That Viking bitch hit me!” Cunningham yelped again. “Make her stop!” he moaned.

Reginleif's barrage continued. She quickly drove Cunningham against a tree. She drew her sword and held its point to his throat.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Private, why do you make yourself our enemy? Until now, Reginleif has done absolutely nothing to you. In fact, she has all but ignored you. The only reason I have done anything to you was because you attempted to sexually assault me the very first time you laid eyes on me. I do not know what it is that you have shoved up your backside, nor do I think I wish to know, but you will _not_ take it out on the rest of us. If you do, then, as the Sergeant said earlier, one of us is likely to pound you into the ground and then leave your broken, bleeding body quivering in the mud for the wolves to eat and I do not think they will wait for you to finish dying. Reginleif is showing remarkable restraint and she may not give you another warning.”

The ensuing tension was so thick, Emma could practically have melted it.

“Private,” said Spooner at length, “if I'm not mistaken, this here's an act of war. Fortunately for you, I ain't sure which of you started it. Cuz somethin' tells me that she ain't a Nazi and that whoever she works for ain't someone we should be messin' with.”

Emma let her lips twitch slightly upward. The Sergeant had no idea how right he was about that. “He has a point,” she said. “You really do not want to annoy the Aesir.”

“The...who?” said Spooner.

“I will explain while we walk.”

Spooner glanced at Reginleif, who hadn't budged. “Apologize to the Lady, Private.”

“But...”

“Dammit, Private, just do it. We don't have all day.”

“Sorry,” Cunningham grunted. He didn't sound particularly sincere.

Reginleif's eyes narrowed. Momentarily, she released Cunningham.

Emma could tell it was going to be a long rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an English translation of the bit of Egil Saga, and the tune:
> 
> http://lyricstranslate.com/en/egil-saga-egil-sega.html


	7. Chapter 7

Norman had no idea where he was. From Cunningham's mutterings and Spooner's occasional swearing, none of them knew. No one, that was, except for Emma. Sure, they were somewhere in the mountains west of Mannheim. But Emma could have immediately pointed to their exact location on a map.

“Is it much further?” grunted Spooner.

Norman sympathized. They'd been walking uphill along what amounted to a deer path all morning. While strenuous, Norman didn't mind. As far as he was concerned, he had the best view. He'd been thoroughly enjoying the way his wife's legs and buttocks moved, muscles rippling beneath soft feminine skin, as she powered her way upward.

“Really, Sergeant,” she said, barely any sign of exertion in her voice. “Have you never been hiking?”

“No.”

“Pity. We will crest out soon.”

“How the hell do you know?” Cunningham demanded.

“Because I have been hiking many times, Private, and I can tell when we are near to cresting out.”

A few moments later, Emma left the deer trail and headed directly uphill. After a dozen steps, she paused. “Corporal,” she said, “are you ogling my royal tush?”

“Uh...what?”

“I said, are you ogling my royal tush?” she repeated insistently.

Norman blinked. “Well...yeah. Why?”

“We are on duty.”

Norman started. “What? You mean I'm not even allowed to do _that_ while on duty?”

Emma looked over her shoulder and grinned, then winked at him before turning around to resume her ascent.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, puffing after her. “You're teasing me.”

“Of course!” she said cheerily.

Norman shook his head slowly and chuckled softly. That woman was something else.

Not long thereafter, their climb eased somewhat. Loose leaf litter gave way to rockier soil where the trees grew smaller.

Emma pointed off across the slope. “There,” she said.

Norman peered in that direction.

“I don't...” Cunningham began.

“I see it!” said Spooner.

A few dozen steps brought them to the edge of a patch of scorched forest. To Norman, it looked a lot like the aftermath of one of Emma's discharges. Charred leaves gave way quickly to bare soil. Stubs of branches protruded from tree trunks blackened on one side. Blue sky showed through a jagged hole in the forest canopy.

The carcass of an American fighter aircraft sat in the middle of it, a deep furrow of churned earth trailing away toward the ridgetop. The distinctive tang of burnt wood stung Norman's nostrils.

Spooner let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Grafin, I'd really like to know how you knew this was here.”

“I told you,” she replied, “it is complicated. Suffice it to say, it has a lot to do with heat.”

“Of course it does,” Cunningham muttered.

Emma apparently ignored him. Instead, she simply continued to make her way across the slope, her feet swishing softly in the leaf litter, then crunching just as softly through scorched twigs.

The plane sat nose down-slope, its propeller blades bent and partially sheared off. Both wings had been torn away from the fuselage, which leaned at an angle. Reddish earth lay piled against the forward end of the plane, clearly having been plowed up during the crash.

Emma stopped twenty paces from the plane. “Stop,” she said as Spooner tried to pass her.

“Why?”

“Because you will disturb the evidence.” She rattled off that evidence, pointing to various places about the crash site as she did. “The cockpit is empty. There are multiple sets of footprints on the ground. They lead that way.” She nodded off to the west. “There is far too little blood. And there is a large disturbance twelve meters upslope of the plane.”

Emma trudged off across the crash site, angling around to the starboard side of the plane.

“Are you sure it's his plane?” Spooner asked.

Emma stopped at a set of footprints and peered at them. “Difficult to tell,” she said at length. “It is in the right general location. It is the right class, a P-fifty-one Mustang. But the numbering has burned off the rudder. If you look at these footprints, you will see that the ones leaving the site are more depressed than the ones approaching.”

“Which means what?” asked Cunningham.

Spooner groaned. “It means they were carrying something heavy. Probably a person.”

“Which person?”

Spooner shrugged. “No idea. Without the plane's call numbers, there's no way to tell.”

“There is one way to know,” said Emma.

“Let me guess, we have to follow the people who took him. Right?”

“Ja.”

“There's another one,” said Norman.

“Oh? Do tell, please.”

“Pilots sometimes carry photos of loved ones. It's...well, it's a sort of good-luck charm.”

Emma grunted and nodded.

Norman stepped over to the plane and placed a foot on the earth berm. It shifted under his weight. He tried it again and again, with the same results each time.

“Corporal,” said Emma, “please?”

Norman looked over his shoulder. Emma waved him casually away from the aircraft. His brow furrowed.

“I have an idea,” she said, “but you are in the way right there.”

Norman stepped back and down the berm. “You're going to climb in?”

Emma chuckled. “Something like that,” she said brightly. She turned her attention to the aircraft.

Without warning, she reached up and pressed her fingertips against the side of the plane. The metal immediately began to glow, first a dull red, then progressively brighter, through orange, yellow, and bright white. She shoved her fingers through the metal, wiggling them a bit to widen the resulting holes. As the glow subsided, she planted both feet against the lower part of the fuselage and hoisted herself upward.

At the rim of the cockpit, two red spots appeared on the metal. The spots grew into lines creeping down the skin of the craft. As they crept, they grew brighter. Norman felt heat as though from a pair of coils.

“Um, Em...Grafin?” said Norman. “What are you doing?”

“You have seen a cutting torch burn through metal, ja?”

“Sure. But...”

As the color brightened to yellow and then to white, the metal began to separate. Emma arched her back, shifting her body weight outward as she heaved against the sheet of metal. The skin of the aircraft bent outward, peeling away as though it were a banana. When she'd pulled it down to ground level, she wrenched it sideways. It tore away like so much tin foil, the exposed edges rapidly cooling to a charcoal color. She tossed it onto the ground beside her, hitting with a dull bang.

Spooner whistled. “Damn. How the hell'd you do that?”

“It is complicated,” she said.

Norman chuckled. “She's a goddess,” he said.

“I don't doubt it,” said Spooner.

Emma giggled, then proceeded to repeat the process with the plane's ribs, each pulling out like sawed bones from some metal animal. She yanked out a few interior components, then half-disappeared through the gap she'd created. Moments later, she emerged with a photograph in hand. She held it up to Norman. “This was wedged between some dials on the instrument panel,” she said. “Do you recognize these people?”

Norman peered at the photo, then nodded. “It's him,” he said. “And Tina.”

“His lady, I take it?”

“Girlfriend, yeah.”

“She is pretty. Are they happy together?”

Norman shrugged. “I don't know. They had a fight before he joined the Army a couple of years ago. I, uh, kind of lost track of things after that.”

Emma grunted again. “Pity. He clearly still cares for her in some way.”

“I guess.”

“Look, guys,” said Spooner, “this is all touching, but can we save the family bonding time for later? If you haven't noticed, it's getting kind of late and I'd rather not be up here when it gets dark.”

Emma thought for a moment, then said, “Then I know just the place. Follow me. Please,” she added.

Spooner exhaled. “Fine, lead the way. But if you get us killed...” He let the rest of whatever he was thinking dangle.

Emma immediately took off downslope in a relaxed, loping stride. Almost immediately, she began to sing in time to the rhythm of her steps.

Bittida en morgon innan solen upprann  
Innan foglarna började sjunga  
Bergatrollet friade till fager ungersven  
Hon hade en falskeliger tunga 

Herr Mannelig herr Mannelig trolofven i mig  
För det jag bjuder så gerna  
I kunnen väl svara endast ja eller nej...

Surprisingly, Reginleif joined, although the words she sang were different from, but still similar to, Emma's. Norman guessed that Reginleif sang in Old Norse and Emma in...German? No, it didn't sound harsh enough for that.

The group careened down the slope, caroming around trees, hopping over rocks, neither Emma nor Reginleif missing a beat, nor pausing in their song. At last, they hopped a drainage ditch and landed on a gravel road, the song coming to a close.

“What...was...that?” asked Spooner between breaths.

“Herr Mannelig,” said Emma.

“German?”

“Swedish.”

Norman blinked. “You speak that, too?”

“No way,” said Spooner. “Just because...she can sing a song...doesn't mean...she speaks it.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Emma.

“Bullshit,” said Cunningham.

“Cow manure has very little to do with it.” She glanced at the road, then pointed toward the west. “They went that way.”

“How do you know?” said Spooner.

She pointed at the gravel. “The most recent tire tracks arc around in a six-point turn, then head in that direction.”

She spun on her heel and stalked off down the road toward a lowering sun that hung only a few diameters above the wooded ridge that rose steeply on both sides.

Norman tried to ignore Cunningham's muttering as they walked. It wasn't easy. On the one hand, Emma had demonstrated clearly that she was more than capable of defending herself. The Sergeant had also wasted little time putting the Private in his place. On the other hand, Cunningham didn't seem to be taking any of the hints and he was stepping on Norman's last nerve.

“Private?” said Norman.

“Yeah?” said Cunningham.

“Shut up.”

“Uh...what?”

“Was I not clear? Maybe that should have been, shut the _hell_ up!”

Cunningham looked at him the way a cow would look at an oncoming train. “About what?” he said at length.

Norman blinked. What did he mean, about what? Cunningham couldn't be _that_ stupid, could he?

“You mean about your cunt of a...?

Cunningham didn't finish. Norman spun around and punched Cunningham in the jaw. The Private pitched backward, but Norman barely noticed. He grunted, and clutched at his hand. “God _damn_ it!” he spat.

Spooner looked at him. “Hurts, don't it?” he said casually.

Norman shook his hand in the air, flexing his fingers. “No,” he grunted. “Not really.”

“Uh-huh,” said Spooner, nodding emphatically. “Whatever you say, Corporal.”

Cunningham recovered, then launched himself at Norman. A fist hit him in the gut before the rest of the man drove him to the ground. Norman gasped for breath. Another blow hit his ribs. He tried to hit back, but his body wouldn't cooperate. Moments later, a dark blur arced through Norman's peripheral vision and collided with something soft. Cunningham cursed and gasped for breath himself. Moments later, he rolled off of Norman.

“Private Cunningham,” Emma snapped from a crouch, “do you always attack a man for attempting to defend his wife's honor? What is the matter with you?”

“ _You're_ the matter with me!” Cunningham managed to snarl.

“That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever,” she said.

“Private,” Spooner barked, “get your ass off the ground!”

“But...”

“Shut up and do it, soldier, that's an order!”

Cunningham struggled to his feet.

Norman tried to sit up. “Are you alright?” Emma asked from right next to him. Then, “Private Cunningham, if you so much as move a muscle, I swear by all that is holy and sacred that you _will_ know pain. Do I make myself clear?” With one swift move, she switched her frying pan to her left hand and extended it, now glowing red, toward the Private.

She turned her attention back to Norman, her arm still outstretched.

She chuckled softly. “Corporal,” she said quietly, “if you intend to hit someone, you should learn to do it properly.” She leaned closer. “Thank you, by the way,” she said quietly. “I appreciate that.”

She rocked back to her feet, extended a hand, and hauled Norman back to his feet. She reached into her pouch, dug around for several moments, and then pulled out a small piece of something dark and lumpy. “Here,” she said, handing it to Norman, “this will help with the pain and healing.”

“What about me?” said Cunningham.

“What about you?”

“Do I get some, too?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Wait, you hit me with a hot frying pan, and you won't help me?”

“You can help yourself,” she snapped. “Until you learn to hold your tongue at the very least, and preferably to pry the gherkin out of your backside, you will suffer. I am not your enemy, but so long as you continue to segregate your own neurons, I will not be your friend either.”

Norman took the offered piece of whatever-it-was and peered at it. “What's in it?”

“Eat it first.” She paused. “It is probably best that you do not now...yet.”

Norman raised an eyebrow, then stuffed it into his mouth.

“Chew thoroughly,” she said.

Norman did. His mouth exploded with a vast array of competing flavors, some pleasant, some not so much. He recognized a few of the ingredients, but others were a mystery. A minute later, he swallowed it with a grimace.

“Better?”

Norman nodded. “Getting there,” he said.

Without another word, the four plodded down the road.

“Where are we, anyway, Grafin?” Spooner said after a while.

Emma pointed toward a river below the road to the right. “River Erlenbach.” She pointed ahead. “Frankenstein.”

“Wait, wait, wait. As in, Frankenstein's monster?”

“Ja. Fictionalized, of course.”

“Uh-huh. And how do you know they went this way?”

“Geography.” Then she smiled. “Your military intelligence are not the only people who know things they otherwise should not.”

“Hold on just a second,” said Spooner. He tromped over and stood in Emma's path. “Did you just confess to being a spy?”

Emma stopped and cocked an eyebrow. Reginleif stopped on the other side of the gap between them. “That is overly simplistic, Sergeant,” said Emma. “Espionage denotes a deliberate attempt by a representative of one organization to infiltrate another and harvest information. We simply know things. A great many things. Only occasionally must we resort to espionage.

“In this case, I know that there is a castle above Frankenstein and another around the bend in Diemerstein. One needs only go there, read one's history, or consult a map to discover that. Furthermore, the use of existing fortifications goes back nearly as long as the history of fortification itself. That is something else you would know had you studied history. And so I can deduce that the German military has likely made use of one or both of these structures. Also, there were tracks left in the gravel leading this way.”

Spooner stared at Emma for several moments. He grunted and spun away, cursing under his breath. “Fine, but if you get us killed...”

Emma let out a heavy, exasperated sigh, but said nothing.

Minutes later, they rounded a bend in the road, quaint little cottages lining it. The road disappeared around another bend. High on a rocky knee forcing that bend sat a small, squat castle.

“I'll be damned,” said Spooner.

“I told you,” said Emma brightly. “Gentlemen...and Private Cunningham...welcome to Frankenstein.”

Emma picked up her pace, Reginleif falling in beside her, the others laboring behind. Norman kept his eye on the castle as they followed the road beside the little river running along the valley floor. Shadows deepened. Still, the castle showed no sign of habitation, its windows remaining dark. Norman had to suppose that perhaps that was deliberate. After all, if he was going to use a castle as a base, he wouldn't want anyone to know he was there either.

“Are you sure anyone's home up there?” Spooner asked.

“Absolutely, ja.”

Spooner grunted. They walked along the road, the little town slowly revealed with each step that brought them around the bend in the mountain. Dull light shone from only a few windows, some of it candlelight from the look of it.

“Where is everyone?” Cunningham asked.

“It depends,” said Emma. “Some have gone for various reasons. Of those, some will never return. Others hide.”

“Why? The war's over.”

“Some people have not, as you would say, received the memo. They fear being shot, or worse. They fear being conscripted. War exacts a heavy toll, even on those who have no desire to be a part of it. You three went to war. For most, war comes to them. So it has been since time immemorial.” She paused, then lowered her voice a little. “I think it is best we keep our heads down for a while.”

“I thought you said the people here have no interest in the war.”

“So I did. But that does not mean they will pass up an opportunity to eliminate a few potential troublemakers.”

“So now we're troublemakers?” said Spooner.

“As far as they are concerned, ja.”

“So what do you propose we do? I mean, I assume you have something in mind, doncha?”

“So I do. I am monitoring the situation.”

“Monitoring? Don't take this the wrong way, but we can't see shit.”

“Then I suggest you use your nose. Trust me, if anyone tries anything, Reginleif and I will know about it almost before they do.”

“That isn't very reassuring.”

“Why not?”

“Because it means that if any of us tries anything, you'll know about that before we try it. It also means that if you try something, you'll have done it almost before we realize you've done it.”

Emma exhaled deeply. “Why, why, _why_ , in the wide world of all things rational and sane would I try anything against any of you?”

“Because you're German?” Cunningham grumbled.

“You do not know me very well,” she half-growled.

“Yeah, well, we know your kind well enough to...”

“Private Cunningham!” Emma spat. “You have absolutely _no_ idea what my kind are. You make far too many assumptions about me. Those assumptions are dangerous. If you had half a clue about my kind and what it is that we carry, you would soil yourself. Now, screw your head on straight!”

Emma picked up her pace, her footsteps crisp for a barefooted woman. Norman and the others had little choice but to follow her. They rounded the hill, and Emma abruptly veered left to onto a side street. It almost immediately began to climb. Somewhere in the dark, Emma withdrew something metallic from her pouch and placed it upon her head. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

“Two soldiers stand sentry at the castle gate.”

“How do you...” Spooner began.

“I will talk to them,” she interrupted. “Do nothing threatening.”

“Easier said than done.”

Minutes later, they rounded a house and found themselves face to face with the two German soldiers Emma had said were there, back-lit by incandescent lamps mounted to both sides of the main gate. Everyone drew weapons, then proceeded to stare at each other for what felt like forever.

Germans pointed rifles at the Americans. The Americans pointed theirs back. Emma pointed her frying pan. Reginleif pointed spear with one hand and sword with the other. For a long time, no one moved.

Then Emma spoke. “Guten abend, mein herren. Ich möchte mit zu sprechen, wen auch immer hier verantwortlich ist."

“What did she just say?” Cunningham said through clenched teeth.

“No idea,” said Spooner, also between his teeth.

“I think she said 'good evening,'” said Norman.

“It took her that long just to say good evening?”

“Uh...no, just the first part. I didn't understand the rest of it.”

“Uh-huh. Where did she get the, uh, crown?”

Norman shrugged. “Her pouch, I guess.”

“Great,” Spooner grunted.

One of the Germans took half a step forward. “Wer bist du?"

“Grafin Emma Fitzherbert Corona Ellison,” she said, “inhaber von drei sonnen."

Norman quickly lost the rest of the conversation. But the gist of it seemed to be that Emma was trying to establish authority and the German soldiers were resisting.

“She's trying to get us killed,” Cunningham grumbled.

Emma looked over her shoulder. “Let me handle this, Private. Or _they_ will kill you.”

After another couple of exchanges, one of the Germans turned and yelled for his commander, the rest lost to Norman in a jumble of German.

Emma placed her other hand—the one not still holding her frying pan—on her hip and waited.

A minute later, a small door beside the castle gate opened and a German officer marched out. Norman thought he saw the man falter slightly, but he regained his composure so quickly, it was difficult to tell. In any event, he demanded something in German. 

Emma withdrew her frying pan and rested it on her shoulder. “Herr Leutnant,” she said cheerily, then continued in equally cheery German. 

“She knows him?” grumbled Spooner. 

Norman shrugged. “Beats me, sir.” 

“Dammit, Corporal, stop 'sir-ing' me.” 

Emma and the German officer continued their conversation. Though Norman had no idea what they were saying, it was clear the discussion rapidly deteriorated. 

At one point, Emma got right up in his face, practically spitting at him. One of the other soldiers took a step toward her. Without looking, she thrust her pan at him and said, “ _NEIN!_ ” before resuming her tirade. The officer, though half a had taller, finally backed down. 

Emma looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “We will now go in,” she said. 

“To be prisoners?” said Cunningham. 

“You are an idiot,” she grumbled, before turning back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herr Mannelig, by Garmarna:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2kc570KwUs
> 
> I found some conflicting information with regard to the location of the castle which inspired Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein.' The one in this chapter is labelled as such in GoogleMaps and is in the mountains to the west of Mannheim.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom Ellison slowly opened his eyes to a darkened room. All the aches and pains that had been his constant companions since he'd slammed into the ground however many days before felt a little less severe than they'd been the last time he'd been awake.

Something felt different, like the way his insides had felt when he'd had his appendix out years before, but all over. Whether or not that was part of the healing process, he could only guess.

His vision cleared and he found himself gazing up into a pair of piercing, rich brown eyes set in a beautiful, if severe, face. Firelight bathed that face in a warm glow that glinted off strands of chestnut hair.

He forced a grin. “Hey there, beautiful,” he croaked. Great, he thought, that went over like a lead balloon.

The woman's lips curved into a smile. That was a good sign, at least.

“What's your name?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from sounding like grinding rock.

“Reginleif,” she said. “Minn nafn er Reginleif.”

Great, he thought, she doesn't speak English. He couldn't be sure, but it didn't exactly sound like German either.

The angelic singing he'd only half noticed stopped. “Oh, good,” said a second woman from somewhere nearby. “He is awake.” A few moments later, another face joined Reginleif's, her own blue eyes smiling at least as much as her lips. A strip of metal, set with purple and yellow stones, rested on her brow, contrasting nicely with light brown, slightly coppery, hair. “It took you long enough,” she added.

A third, familiar face, joined the other two.

Tom's eyes widened. “Norman? What the hell are you doing here?” He coughed, then added, “And I mean that with the love of Jesus.”

Norman managed a tight smile. “Good to see you, too.”

“Thanks. I could say the same. Except that you're supposed to be home. So...?”

Norman folded his arms across his chest. “We're rescuing you, that's what.”

Tom smiled. He gestured weakly at his brother. “So, you, uh...”

“Joined the Army? Yeah.”

The blue-eyed woman crossed her arms and looked at Norman. “Your brother seems to be in a mood.”

Norman looked at her and shrugged. “He's usually a little more...well, less grumpy.”

Tom snorted. “You'd be grumpy, too, if your plane crashed, broke half your body, and then got arrested by Nazis.” He looked around. “Oh, crap. If I was arrested, and you're here, then...ah, shit.”

“Do you kiss your lady with that mouth?” asked the woman.

“Uh...lady? What lady?”

“The one in the photograph you left in your plane. Tina, I believe.”

Tom frowned.

“She has a thing about profanity,” said Norman.

Tom grunted. “Sorry,” he said, and meant it. “But if you're here...”

“War's over,” said Norman.

“No kidding?”

“And we won.”

“So these guys here just surrendered, is that it?”

“Uh...not exactly. They didn't know until we showed up.”

“So you had to shoot 'em?”

Norman let out a snort of barely-contained laughter. “That's the best part. Grafin Emma took over.”

“Who's Grafin Emma?”

Norman pointed to the blue-eyed woman. She inclined her head, then extended a hand. “Grafin Emma Fitzherbert Ellison,” she said. “I am pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Tom Ellison.”

Tom shook Emma's hand, noting her strong grip and exceptionally warm skin. “Ellison, huh? What a coincidence.”

“Oh, I do not believe in coincidences,” she said. “I have seen far too many of them.”

Tom grunted. “You don't say.” He began to sit up. A spasm of pain shot through his abdomen and he aborted the attempt.

“You should rest a while longer,” said Emma. “Your injuries have not yet healed.”

Tom exhaled. “Okay, what did I break? I think they tried to tell me, but I don't speak German.”

“You sustained three cracked ribs, a bruised sternum, mild concussion, several strained vertebrae, internal bleeding, sprained wrist, torn shoulder tendons from a dislocation, lacerations, and a wrenched knee. All in all, not terribly bad for that sort of impact.”

“Now I'm sorry I asked.”

“You needed to know,” she said.

“So what do I do about all that?”

“Rest, mostly. I stopped all the bleeding, but it will all have to heal.”

“I thought you said it was internal.”

“Oh, it was.”

“How'd you do that?”

“I cauterized it.”

“You...you cut me open?!”

Emma chuckled. “Of course not. My degree of precision makes that wholly unnecessary. It is complicated.”

“Don't ask me,” said Norman. “I don't understand it either.”

“What's with all the torches?” Tom indicated the half-dozen flaming batons set in sconces mounted to the walls.

“The electricity failed,” said Emma.

“From the war?”

Emma smiled broadly. “From me.”

“Grafin!” barked one of the German soldiers from the door.

Emma turned her head slowly in that direction. “Ja, Herr Leutnant?”

A brief discussion in German ensued.

“Would you gentlemen excuse me, please?” She walked around Tom's cot and continued her discussion with the German soldier.

A few moments later, Emma returned. “Apparently, we are about to have a little company.”

“Who?” asked another man Tom didn't recognize.

“Two dozen soldiers.”

“That's a little vague, Grafin. I need a little more than that.”

“They are what remains of a German battalion. Several battalions, actually. They have very little in the way of provisions. Their Sergeant barely holds them together.”

“Grafin, you can't let them in here!”

“Sergeant, they are already staggering through the gate. If you do not mind, and even if you do, I am going to negotiate their surrender.”

“To the United States Army?”

“Nein, to me.”

“Oh, I see,” said another man, “you're pulling together an army to swat us, is that it?”

“Seriously?” said Emma. “Private Cunningham, my patience with you is not infinite. Nor is Reginleif's.”

“Oh, so you're going to pull your witchcraft...”

“Seriously?” Emma spat. “Are you really this stupid? From everything I have heard come out of your mouth, you have the brains of a festering bowl of dog snot. If we were to take your intelligence and multiply it by a hundred, you might have enough to tie your shoe, if you do not drool all over yourself first!”

“You take that back!” Cunningham snarled.

“I know your type, and you are all bravado. If you knew what it is that I carry, you would lose control of your bodily functions.”

“And what's that?”

“That is on a need-to-know basis. The only person here who needs to know is Corporal Ellison. Now pry your head out of your rear end, and if you make _one_ more of your disparaging remarks, so help me, I _will_ burn off one of your eyebrows. Or have you forgotten what I did up on the mountain?”

Cunningham spat a curse. One of his eyebrows abruptly burst into flame. He shouted in rage and rushed Emma. She dodged, stuck out a foot, and tripped him.

“I wasn't ready for you,” he snarled. “Let's try it again when I _am_ ready.”

“When you are ready? Hrmph. We would be waiting an awfully long time.”

“Are you saying you can't be defeated?”

“No, I am saying that _you_ cannot defeat me. Because by the time you have even half the amount of experience and training you need, you will be far too old and decrepit to put it to anything resembling use. Now, sit down before you fall down!”

She whirled around and stalked out of the room, the German Lieutenant scurrying before her.

The rest gawked after her.

“What...the hell...was that?” Tom asked.

Norman recovered soonest. He chuckled. “Which part?”

“Let's start with the Private's eyebrow.”

Norman smirked. “Emma's a goddess,” he said.

“You mean a witch,” Cunningham growled.

Norman whirled around. “She's not a witch!” he spat.

“But she...” Cunningham began, pointing at his eyebrow.

“Because you're being an asshole!” Norman yelled.

Cunningham took a step toward Norman. “You take that back!”

“Knock it off, both of you,” said the Sergeant. “Private,” he said to Cunningham, “he's right. You are, in fact, being an asshole. Emma might be right, too. If you're not a complete idiot, you're sure as hell doing a bang-up job of impersonating one. Corporal, just calm down. Or do I have to put the two of you in separate corners?”

Norman and Cunningham glared at one another, but said nothing further. At length, Cunningham stalked out of the room.

“Where's he going?” said Tom.

Norman shrugged.

The Sergeant shook his head. “No idea. But I think I'd better go make sure he doesn't pick a fight. It would serve him right if he gets himself killed, but I really don't want to have to explain it to his mother.” He took off after the Private, but a more sedate pace.

Tom cocked an eyebrow at Norman. “Where did you find her?” Tom asked.

“In a small town somewhere south of Berlin.”

“What's Grafin?”

“She said it's the equivalent of a countess.”

“How'd she wind up with you guys?”

“She's our guide.”

“And your CO was okay with that?”

Norman chuckled. “Emma insisted. And the captain let her just so he could get her out of his hair, as he put it.”

“What was she doing at a U.S. Army briefing?”

He listened as Norman told the story of how he and Emma had met, and what had happened since then.

Tom almost sat up again. “You...what?!” he blurted when his brother mentioned his wedding. “Norman, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I don't know. I guess I wasn't.”

“You don't say. Jessica's going to be pissed.”

“We broke up.”

“Shucks. That's too bad. Really, it is. You two were cute together. Not that Emma isn't beautiful, but I think you might be in a little over your head.”

Norman exhaled heavily. “Yeah, you're probably right.” He went on to tell the rest of it.

“Damn,” said Tom, once Norman's tale had brought them up to the present. He looked at the beautiful, brown-eyed woman standing next to Norman, still silent. “And you?”

“Ok mik hvat?”

“Uh...is that German?”

“Norwegian, I think,” said Norman. “Actually, she doesn't say much. Not in English, anyway.”

“I don't speak Norwegian.”

“I think she speaks Old Norse.”

“Old Norse? No one's spoken that for a thousand years.”

Norman shrugged. “I'm not saying I understand it, I'm just saying that's what I've gathered.”

Tom returned his attention back to Reginleif. “Well, you're gorgeous,” he said. “Just saying.”

Reginleif grinned. “Ek lika thik ok. Etha ek vil thiggja fag.”

“You don't say.”

Reginleif suddenly leaned down and kissed him on the lips. It was electric, so unlike anything he'd ever felt kissing Tina. He leaned up into it as best he could. At length, she pulled back, smiling.

“Wow,” he said. “What was that for?”

She shrugged. “Thu er ikke som inn andre.”

Tom considered Reginleif for a few moments. “Wait, do you actually understand English?”

“Ja.”

“But you don't speak it.”

“Neinn.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged again. “Ek vitta ikke.”

“I think,” said Norman, “you might have to learn Old Norse.”

Tom grunted. He had a feeling his life had just become weird.


	9. Chapter 9

Norman awakened to Emma's usual morning egress. He rolled out of bed himself, oblivious to the cold air and even colder stone floor that assaulted his bare skin. He snatched up Emma's woolen garment from where she'd draped it across their shared packs and followed her.

She extended a hand behind her, palm held out in a 'stop' gesture, before ducking into an empty side room. Norman skidded to a halt, then took a few steps back.

Moments later, fire erupted through the door with a loud _WHUMPH!_ He instinctively turned his face away from the heat.

“Oh, geez!”

Norman looked over at his brother's cot. Tom sat stiffly upright, staring at the room where Emma had gone.

“Norman,” he said, “I am so...”

Emma trotted back out of the room, snatched her garment out of Norman's hand and in the same motion pulled it over her head, settling it about her hips. She jerked her head toward Tom.

“I think we just broke your brother,” she said.

Norman looked over to where Tom sat gawking, jaw slack. He knew the feeling.

“Tom,” he said, “I know what you're thinking. And whatever it is, it's nothing like that.”

Tom moved his mouth, apparently trying to say something. When he finally found his voice, all he could say was, “Wh...wha...wha...”

Norman slid an arm around Emma's waist and grinned. “I married a goddess!” he gushed.

“A...a goddess?”

Emma tittered. “My husband exaggerates.”

“B...but...what the hell was _that?!_ ” Tom blurted, gesturing toward the room.

“Discharge,” said Norman.

“Of what?”

Norman exhaled heavily. “Emma has pyrokinesis. The real thing, not the parlor tricks.”

“That's impossible.”

“Is it?” said Emma. She extended a hand. Fire erupted around it, flowing between her fingers as she'd demonstrated to Norman some days before. A few moments later, it vanished.

Tom blinked. “It's gotta be a trick.”

“It's phenomenal!” said Norman.

Tom exhaled heavily. “I'm hallucinating, aren't I? An injury-induced hallucination. That's what.”

“Always with you what cannot be done,” said Emma. “Perhaps it is best that you wait and see. Make up your mind later.”

The blanket beside Tom moved. Someone else sat up and the blanket slid away. Reginleif raked her brown hair aside. Tom looked at her, then at Norman, then back at Reginleif, then back at Norman. All the while, his mouth kept trying to work.

Emma laughed. “Well,” she said, “you Ellison men do have a way of tangling yourselves up with challenging women.”

Tom looked sharply at Reginleif. “It's not what it looks like.”

“Of course it is,” Emma said amiably. “Reginleif chose you.”

“Chose me?”

“It is what she does.”

“She crawls naked into bed with strange men and just goes to sleep?”

“Well...not that so much. In fact, it has been some time since she has chosen a man in that manner.”

“In that manner?”

Emma shrugged. “Most of the time she chooses those slain in battle.”

Tom looked at Reginleif. “You're a nurse?”

Reginleif scowled. “Valkyrie,” she said flatly.

“Wh...what?” said Tom and Norman nearly in unison.

“Ek Valkyrie,” she said.

“I'm confused,” said Norman. “Again,” he added. “Or still. What does she mean she's a Valkyrie?”

“They are Choosers of the Slain,” said Emma. “Do you not know your history?”

“Mythology,” said Tom.

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “History has a way of becoming legend. Which tends to fade into myth. Granted, it is not always easy to separate the two. Still, one should not confuse the one for the other.”

“Uh...what?”

Emma chuckled. “The point, brother-in-law, is that Reginleif has chosen you. And when you are healed enough, she will cleave to you. She is a very interesting person and I doubt you will be disappointed in her. I believe she will challenge your intellect, as well as your loins.”

Tom glanced at Reginleif. “You don't say,” he said.

“Oh, do be happy,” said Emma. “She is delightful.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said she was challenging.”

“Oh, she is.”

“But...”

Emma chuckled. “How are challenging and delightful mutually exclusive traits?”

Tom opened his mouth, but then closed it again.

Emma shrugged, then glanced toward something Norman couldn't see. “You two should catch up. It seems I have some more administrating to do.”

* * *

Norman stood leaning against the doorway to one of the upper battlements of Castle Frankenstein. Out on a parapet, Emma stood looking down the valley, singing into the sunset.

Mae'r ddaear a'r byd yn eiddo i mi  
Mae'n rhy werthfawr i'w rhoi i ffwrdd  
Mae hi gyda ni i gadw  
Felly gadewch hi'n iawn.

Y werin ydw i  
A fi ydy'ch ysbryd  
Yssbryd y werin 'dw i...

Norman just listened. He didn't understand any of the words, of course. But he did appreciate the beauty of it. He felt his lips curve up into a smile. There really wasn't anything about Emma that wasn't beautiful. Although maybe his brother was right. Maybe he just hadn't known his wife long enough to notice her flaws. Maybe she had him wrapped around her finger. Norman wasn't sure he cared.

When it seemed Emma was bringing the song toward a resolution, Norman stepped quietly toward her.

“Good evening, husband,” she said, still looking away.

Norman chuckled, then sidled up next to Emma. She leaned back against him. He instinctively put his arms around her, the woolen fabric of her tunic deceptively soft beneath his hands.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Just holding me.” She took a deep breath, then let it back out. “It is not easy being strong all the time. Constantly being vigilant. It is a way of life, but habits notwithstanding, it does put a strain on a person. Some day soon, I will have the luxury of relaxing. But not yet.” She sighed. “If only that private of yours would pry his head out of his backside. I fear I am going to have to do him some real harm. And I do so abhor violence. Well, most of the time.”

She chuckled. “I do admit, beating him into the ground that morning was almost orgasmic...almost. Still, that is the thing about threats. One must be prepared to carry them out. And I am afraid simply burning off an eyebrow might not be sufficient.

“I have been hoping that Reginleif will do that for me. Believe me, she is showing remarkable restraint. But if she does let loose on him, he will know more pain than he thinks possible.”

“Is that why you came out here? To get away from him?”

“A little, ja. Going off by myself and singing helps me to settle my mind and center my spirit. I find it nearly as beneficial as my morning sun-bath.”

“I don't think I understand you, Emma.”

She shrugged. “That does not matter. You need not understand me, you need only love me.”

“I can do that.”

Emma turned around in Norman's arms and slid her hands up to his shoulders. “Good,” she said. “Because I have overheard some of your conversation with your brother.”

Norman felt his mouth start to smile.

Emma slipped one hand from Norman's shoulder and began to tap him in the chest.

“First,” she said, “my luminescence.” Norman opened his mouth, but Emma forged onward. “Norman, what goes on in one's bed should remain there. I would have thought that to be obvious.”

“But he'd find out anyway,” he protested.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. And if he were to ask, then I would first question his manners, and second tell him to mind his own business, diplomatically or otherwise. But blabbering that sort of thing all over the place will only invite trouble. And one should not borrow trouble from tomorrow. Today has enough of its own.

“Think whatever you will about my supposed divinity. But I am still a woman, still a person. You married me before you knew anything about my interesting attributes. Our relationship will be much healthier if you do not confuse who I am with what I am. If you insist on calling me a goddess, then do so without elaboration, and let people draw their own conclusions. I can assure you that nearly all of those will be so far from the truth as to be irrelevant.

“Second, if you are concerned about fatherhood, then talk to me about it! We are in this together.”

“But I don't know how...”

“Then you will learn on the job. Believe me, there will be plenty of people who will give you advice. In fact, they will give you more than you can handle.”

“If it's sick, or...”

“Illness and injury will not be a problem for him.”

“But...wait, you said 'him.'”

“A mother's intuition,” she said. “The point is, that will not be a problem. No, your greatest challenge will be keeping us fed.” She exhaled. “And Norman, I am not so fragile that I need protection. Remember what I said about princesses and queens.”

“That I should not look for a princess in need of rescuing, but a queen willing to fight at my side.”

She nodded. “An era is coming when women will tell themselves and others that they do not need men. Even now, it is true, but only to a point, and not in the ways that will be espoused. They will insist that a woman can do everything a man can do, and they will be both correct and incorrect.

“Men and women are incomplete without the other. But do not not make the mistake of assuming that I must do this or that task simply because I am a woman, and never, _ever_ , put me on a pedestal.”

“You don't want me to admire you?”

“Of course I want you to admire me!” she snapped. A moment later, she softened somewhat. “All women want to be admired. But that is not what I said. We are a team. Or at least, we will be, once we work out the kinks, so to speak. That two becoming one flesh thing? That is a powerful metaphor. We will fuse, you and I, but that will not happen if you simply stand there and stare at me. If you cannot handle that, then our marriage is going to be a very tense one indeed.

“Now, if you do not mind, I believe it is supper time.” She slipped out of his arms and twined her fingers into his. “Your brother and the others must heal, and for that they need nourishment. For that matter, so do we all. And tomorrow, I would like to begin your training. Would you assist me?”

“Um...sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Emma sings in this chapter, as performed by Carreg Lafar:
> 
> https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-ddc-linuxmint&hsimp=yhs-linuxmint&hspart=ddc&p=Ysbryd+de+Werin+lyrics#id=1vid=6ccc3bbab16339e7c4284ecc344dd1da&action=click


End file.
